A Simple Stick can Strengthen Roots

I’d like to tell you a story. It’s the story of a stick.

The stick began its journey as a branch. This branch served many purposes. In summer, its green leaves provided shade on hot days. In fall, its leaves turned brilliant hues of red and orange, contributing to a kaleidoscope of colors in the yard. In winter, the branch would bend and sway in the wind, sometimes carrying heavy loads of snow and ice during storms. Perhaps it was one of these storms that caused the branch to finally break and come to rest on the ground.

In the spring, a time of rebirth, the stick was collected and placed on a pile of branches and twigs that had suffered a similar fate. As the air began to warm, other boughs high above sprouted new green buds, but the stick remained in the pile of dried brush waiting for the next stage of its life.

Months later, a boy approached the brush pile. After careful consideration, the boy selected the stick, hefted it in his hands, and brought it across the yard to his back porch. Measuring the stick against his own height, the boy broke off a length until the stick was just tall enough to reach his chin. Under the watchful eye of his parents, the boy took out his pocketknife and began to carefully strip away the bark.

The boy had been given the task to create a walking stick as part of his Cub Scout badge. It was a requirement. This was a boy who preferred to stay inside and play videogames, but something made him to forgo the game controller and instead spend time outside, carefully preparing his stick. When all of the bark was finally stripped off, the boy and his father began the process of sanding the stick.

The boy spent hours rubbing the stick with different grades of sandpaper. The father helped the boy smooth down the sharp knots along the stick with a small hand sander. After hours of work, the boy could finally run his hands along the length of the stick and feel nothing but smoothness.

The father and the boy then brushed the stick with several coats of stain, giving it a warm, honey-colored hue. Weeks later, the boy brought his walking stick to a scout gathering at a local state park. The stick shone like gold in the late afternoon sun, while other boys admired it for its sturdiness and craftsmanship. As the boy walked through the woods, the stick bore his weight easily, supporting and steadying him on his trek across the uneven forest floor. The father walked beside the boy, fondly remembering the hours spent crafting the walking stick.

That boy is my son, his father my husband. The stick now resides in a corner of my living room, amongst other walking sticks, some carved decades ago by my son’s great-grandfather. My son’s walking stick adds a rich, golden glow to the collection, waiting patiently for the next hike, the next campout, and the next adventure.

The stick that began its journey as a branch on a tree has now become part of my son’s family tree. Perhaps one day it will sit in the corner of his home, and he will share with his own children the story of how a simple branch became a symbol of a father and son’s love.