The Tree of Souls

The Lord was passing through his garden one day and he came to bask, as he often did, in the shade of his favorite fruit tree.

There it stood in the very heart of the garden, in the midst of so many marvelous creations, powerful and tall, and vibrant with the sap of life pulsing through its mighty trunk and its proud, luxurious limbs. Nothing in the world so commanded his admiration nor his care. It was a glorious tree.

Now, the Lord's habit was to pick only the very ripest specimen. So he cast an examining eye over each piece of fruit, to see which would be the one. And as he admired them, each in turn, blessing them so that they might grow confidently into the fullness of their strength, something strange yet profoundly beautiful began to happen, as it always did whenever his divine presence drew near.

All at once, the fruit began to perk up, to blush, and to glow with a curious inner light. As his warm gaze slid over one, and then another, they shimmered gold and rose, and trembled as if to burst. Even when he was not looking directly upon them, they shined and brightened as if to attract his attention, and his love.

This light, the beauty of which can scarcely be imagined, was really a mysterious and ambivalent longing within the fruit; ambivalent because the longing was tinged with humility. Each fruit felt deep within itself that it was not yet ready, not yet ripe enough to be picked. And though each desired more than anything to be chosen, and at times felt as though they would even fly suddenly from the tree, like birds into the Father's hand, -- humility held them close to their perch.

Only in the sweetest fruits was the longing so incredible as to make them bold. Then, even despite the great humility they felt, their attachment to the tree grew tenuous. Yet it was not until the last trace of bitterness had gone from them, that they did begin to fall.

As if responding to the closeness of his reach, the chosen fruit, now fully ripe, broke free from its slender perch, just as the Lord was about to take hold of it, and dropped softly into his open hand. From there it would be carried easily to his lips, soon to merge its gentle spirit with his own.