Birches

Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.

I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Robert Frost

On Sunday we walked among the trees on the Superior Hiking Trail near the Split Rock River. Walking the trail toward Beaver Bay, high above Highway 61, we saw no one else on the path. The birches swayed in the gusts and yellow poplar leaves littered the trail. As Frost wrote, “One could do worse than be a swinger of birches”

As Tim and I walked we were both were struck by this particular birch tree with its large piece of bark peeling back from the trunk. We stopped so Tim could get a photo. The outer bark held traces of the marks from years long before. And even the more tender inner paper held some of the past wounds.  So many seasons leaving their marks on the layers of the tree bark.

We too are marked by the seasons and stories that are part of our family trees. This week I’ve been remembering a man named Mark, in part because his daughter, Morgan has been sharing beautiful photos of her new baby girl. Mark would have loved to be a grandfather; he was such a good dad. I first met him almost 30 years ago when he brought his young daughter to the church I served as pastor. They would sit in the back pew each Sunday, he in his overalls and she in fancier church clothes. I learned later that if Morgan was good during worship, there would be McDonald’s for lunch.

Mark was a sheet metal worker and a welder working all over the Iron Range. He forged many of the structures of our region, but more than that he brought people together.  He was comfortable with who he was and that made you comfortable too. There was no better place to be than in his kitchen sharing a cup of coffee or a meal.

After retiring with a disability from welding, Mark often helped out at church by folding worship bulletins or the monthly newsletter. We missed him when he took the month of February off to go to Jamaica. He’d fill his suitcase with crayons, yo-yos, bouncy balls and Morgan’s outgrown clothes for the kids of the town he stayed in. He loved to just hang out down there, drink a Red Stripe and cook up a whole lot of food for whoever stopped by. Mark did seem to collect friends wherever he was.

Mark also loved to collect antiques. He would sell them at a booth at Duluth Retro. His home was filled with interesting mirrors and stained glass. Unfortunately, because of pancreatic cancer he would not live long enough to be considered old. Morgan took such good care of her dad during those days of treatment.  And Mark was so grateful to have one last birthday party to share a meal and a beer with those he loved. Thank you Mark for leaving your mark on all of us, especially on your family tree. And once again I am reminded as Frost wrote,

Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.