You are the gift

This is a repost of a message I wrote for an interfaith service at UVA Hospital in 2018. I’m revisiting it this holiday season. Peace to you and all beings. — Jenny

A Reflection on The Giving Tree, by Chaplain Jennifer Phillips. UVA Hospital Interfaith Service, 10.23.18.

I am sorry, Boy,” said the tree, “but I have nothing left to give you—My apples are gone.”
“My teeth are too weak for apples,” said the boy.
“My branches are gone,” said the tree. “You cannot swing on them.” “I am too old to swing on branches,” said the boy.
“My trunk is gone,” said the tree. You cannot climb.” “I am too tired to climb,” said the boy.
“I am sorry,” sighed the tree. “I wish that I could give you something…but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump. I am sorry…”
“I don’t need very much now,” said the boy, “just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired.”
“Well, said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could, “well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.”
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.
— Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree

You will generally hear one of two opposing interpretations of this poem. The first is that this it is an inspiring story of unbound generosity, in which the tree gives so fully of herself that every sacrifice is a joyful act. The second interpretation that you may hear is much sadder. By this reading, The Giving Tree is a tragic tale of a greedy boy taking everything from one who loves him and reducing her to a useless stump in the process.

I find significance in both interpretations, and I would like to add a third:

Perhaps The Giving Tree not only teaches us to be more generous and less greedy, but also shares wisdom about the very essence of our being.

The tree and boy reunite late in their lives, and, at first, they are predominantly worried for what they are not. The tree has no apples, or branches, or trunk; the boy has weak teeth, weak arms, low energy. They confess their frailty to one another, and they mourn the loss of their vitality.

However, in their honesty and vulnerability, a window opens. The tree, “just an old stump,” becomes precisely what the boy needs. And the boy, “just [wanting] a quiet place to sit and rest,” becomes precisely who the tree needs. In spite of their frailty, their losses, and all the things they can no longer be, they are whole for one another.

To my heart, this story echoes the lessons that many faiths teach us. Lessons about inherent dignity, worth, and wholeness—no matter the circumstance. Lessons about becoming genuinely ourselves and loving others, even though we are imperfect in the ways we go about it. Lessons about a love that transcends merit. Lessons about grace that finds us exactly where we are and accepts us for exactly who we are.

And that is my hope for you and everyone in this hospital (this world!) today: that, like the tree and the boy, you come to know your own wholeness. However tired, overwhelmed, fragile, or broken…whether you are a patient, a visitor, or a caregiver…whether you have recently had a win or if you desperately need one…please hear this:

You are whole. You are good. You are a gift, exactly as you are.

You are, as Rumi says, “a manuscript of a divine letter…a mirror reflecting a noble face.”

And you are loved.

(I know this because I love you.)