The Parable of the Indian Tree

Subsequent generations needed to know the way, a trail marker was needed....a tree along the route to point the way to the sacred place.

So the Chief set out to find a suitable tree along the route.  He selected a young maple sapling and bent it over and staked it to the ground.  He knew exactly which direction he wanted the Indian Tree to point and the purpose of the tree.

As years passed, he gently refined the leather thongs tying the tree to the ground, and repeatedly visited the tree to ensure it was growing correctly in the right direction and at the right angle.  Sometimes he needed to scrape the tree gently, causing sap to weep out, but the knife wounds helped to ensure the tree would grow each year in the correct angles.

The Indian Tree flourished in its purpose decade by decade. It grew strong and straight...in a right angle.  In the forest it clearly stood out, pointing the way for all those looking for the right path to the sacred place.

People began to come on the narrow path, a few at first, but increasingly the path grew broader as more people found the sacred place with the help of the Indian Tree.  The tree served its purpose, and people were happy they could find the way and were no longer wandering lost in the forest.  The tree was happy when it saw people helped along the way. Its leaves filled out and burst into color every Spring and every Autumn.

While the tree looked glorious in all seasons and was faithful to its purpose, the Indian Tree was clearly different from all the other trees in the forest, especially those closest to it. The surrounding trees were uniform, straight, and either had no scarring or never reflected on the meaning of the scarring they did have.  These other trees began to look down on the Indian Tree, to scoff at its right angle.

As the years passed, people who didn't understand about the sacred place and didn't understand the purpose of the Indian Tree began to laugh at the tree. Others shook their head and pitied it.  Why did it have such a strange angle?  Why wasn't it like all the other straight trees? Something was wrong with it!  Some folks tried to help, out of pity to try to straighten it. They wanted to make it look like all the others.

They tried to chisel at the tree to cut off the unique angle. They caused deep wounds within the tree.  But they couldn't cut through the whole trunk - it was strong and thick. So they decided to use it for other purposes.

They began to set things on its horizontal arm.  At least it would be useful to them! At first it was just young children sitting on its horizontal limb, but eventually people wanted to build on it and use it for more. A bench was built on its ledge, cutting the tree severely, making it gasp. Then they weighted the horizontal arm even more, building a shelter over the bench, so they could sit there.

As the years passed, the bench and shelter grew even more elaborate into a house, and the weight of the house on the horizontal limb began to pull at the roots of the Indian Tree. The tree began to lean to one side. It wasn't meant to be a bench, a manmade shelter, or carry a house on its horizontal limb. The tree struggled to stay upright, to live for its purpose and point people along the way. It knew it could handle only so much weight and stay upright.

The tree sensed the pressure from all the trees around it, the pressure to be like them, and it felt their scoffing, their pity, their attempts to make it like all the others, the pressure of the people passing by laughing at it, and knew that while it was strong, very much more stress and it would snap in two and lay down and die.

A violent thunderstorm came, the kind only found in that area, and the forest shook. Trees swayed, limbs snapped, and the manmade shelter built onto the horizontal limb of the Indian Tree blew off. Finally!  The tree was free once again from some of the weight sucking its life and strength.

The Chief was long gone, and the tree knew it was all alone except for a few close friends who understood its purpose and celebrated its different shape. Sometimes the tree cursed the way it was, and sunk into depression, its branches and leaves wilting, and at other times it was happy when it saw it was still helpful to a few people and was still needed by a few.

One day a little girl came on a hidden path, once a broad path for those on the their way to the sacred place but then overgrown once more as the Indian Tree sank into obscurity.  The little girl stumbled on the tree and stood and wondered at it.

She saw the scars, the place of deep wounding, the flat place where the shelter used to be, and wondered at the people who used to know the tree in decades past. She wondered at the Indian who had first tied down the tree, and wondered what its marking was for.  She sat on the horizontal limb, and reveled in its protective canopy and silence. She listened to the gentle wind moving its branches. She returned often to the tree, rejoicing each time she saw it standing proudly in all its unique angles.

The tree witnessed to her of its strength to stand through so many storms, because its thickness betrayed the fact it was very old and all the trees around it were young and thin. Clearly, the Indian Tree's contemporaries had long since passed, leaving it surrounded by those who never knew the Chief. The little girl enjoyed the tree and its difference among all other straight trees.

The girl grew up, but she never forgot the tree, remembering it in her heart. Eventually developers came and cleared large swaths of land to build large cookie-cutter houses for wealthy people who didn't care about the sacred place, the path, or the trees. The developers cut down all the straight trees, but left the one unique Indian Tree in all its glory, marking the way to a time and a place long gone.

What I Don't Smell

I sit by the real heat from my fake fire in a small town in Minnesota. I smell cinnamon, cloves, and orange simmering in a small cast iron pot on my stove, since my fake Christmas tree gives off no scent.  And I reflect on what I no longer smell.

I no longer smell the pungent odor of garlic and fish filling our apartment building at night. Wow!  Wish I could be invited to whichever home is making that!

I no longer smell the rotting odor from the sluggish Kabul river when the Spring Rains have long gone.

I no longer smell the fresh baked naan which always made my mouth water.

I no longer smell the Afghan french fries being cooked at the cart just down the road from my house.  Fresh-cooked Afghan french fries are the best in the world. I loved the joy on the Afghan-French-Fry-Cart-Man's face when I hired him to bring his cart into the school or community center yard to cook up fries for large parties. And I loved the joy on everyone's face as they munched on delicious Afghan french fries which wouldn't make them sick.

I no longer smell garlicky kebabs being grilled, whether in Turkey or Afghanistan.

I no longer smell fried potato BolanI being cooked. (I never really liked the leek BolanI). 

I no longer smell the leaking gas from the hose running into my stove.

I no longer smell the sewer smells running into our apartment from the open drains in our apartment in Turkey.

I no longer smell the burning trash as I walked the streets of Kabul.

I no longer smell the smell of death and dying which seemed to envelope us every day.

I no longer smell the freshness of the air when we picknicked in the King's Garden or walked in the high mountain villages of the Himilayan Mountains when we visited remote villages.

I no longer smell the pollution of the Stationary Bazaar.

I no longer smell sickening car exhaust filling the car as I rode in the back seat of my driver's car, and as I could feel the contents of my stomach threatening to come up from car sickness as my driver repeatedly stepped on the gas and then break.

I no longer smell animal flesh hanging in the meat shops of the Karte Se Bazaar, covered in flies. Make sure to get there at 6 in the morning if you want it fresh!

I no longer smell the comforting smell of yeasted donuts rising in my kitchen as I heat the oil to fry them for my family.  It smelled better overseas somehow.

I no longer smell the chlorine from the small pool we maintained for our children and lots of other children so they could enjoy childhood in a militarized war zone of a city. They call Turkey "home" and Afghanistan a place of a delight and childhood wonder.

I no longer smell the delightful mix of mint, red pepper, garlic, and frying meat in my favorite Kayseri Manta restaurant.

I no longer smell the unique mix of spices of KabelI Palau.

I no longer smell the cheap perfume of my Afghan women friends who regularly came to see me because it was too dangerous for me to be seen in their neighborhoods.

I no longer smell the soft sent of Khala-jan Guldara (not her real name), a woman who became like my Afghan mother and our kids' Afghan Grandmother.


Lord, help me to never forget the smell poverty, death, and dying all around me.  Small town USA is so clean.  THERE ARE NO SMELLS. 

Help me to long for the smells of the marriage feast of the Lamb. 



Go To:

What I Don't Hear
What I Don't See

What I Don't See

I close my eyes, and scenes flash before my eyes.

I no longer see the dirty streets of Kabul.

I don't see the gutter of sewer that I needed to avoid as I walked on the uneaven street.

I don't see the goats feeding on the garbage pile just down from my house.

I don't see my sons clambering through the concertina wire and glass shards on top of the walls surrounding our home and yard as they played tag with their friends.

I no longer see the Italian pizza oven we built in our yard and had so many wonderful pizza parties with Afghan and expat friends.

I no longer see the poor burkha-clad woman holding her emaciated baby, sitting in the middle of the busy street as cars drove by her without a look at her empty outstretched hand.

I no longer see the thin faces of the women who regularly rang my doorbell asking me for something, anything, as they stood at my gate. I prayed in Jesus' name for them as I handed two kilos of rice and beans from the stash I kept just for this purpose.

I no longer see the mean boys on the street who seemed to delight in harrassing me and my children by pretending to ride their bikes straight at us.

Men with Guns.

I don't see the guns, guns, guns everywhere. Men with kalishnikovs slung lazily over the shoulders, or the tell-tale bulge of a gun on the Turkish men around me. More men in Turkey are weaponized than are not.  Americans may believe in having guns, but we have no idea what it is to live in a militarized culture.

I close my eyes to remember seeing the locked-down fortress Kabul had become...once a beautiful and open city. Now, a bunker and firebase.

Men with Guns. 

I no longer see gun towers with men pointing their guns.

I no longer see the gigantic cement and sand barriers surrounding every restaurant, every embassy, every NGO, every Afghan Government office, every hotel, protecting from suicide bombers.

Americans are so open!  They leave their curtains open at night so anyone can look in. So strange.  I close my heavily-lined curtains at 5pm every night now, even though I live in a small town in Minnesota that doesn't seem to have any Muslims and definitely no terrorists. 

No one can see in.

We cannot see out.

I feel safer somehow. 

My daughter doesn't understand yet why I get upset when she doesn't close her curtains....doesn't she realize that men looking in are a threat? How can I explain this to her? 

Men with Guns.  

I still see the 10 Afghan Men with Guns walking calmly into my kitchen and telling me "Shhhhh...we are the police."  Did they think I was a fool? 

Men with Guns.  

I still see the men with guns pawing through my beautiful Pakistani-rosewood-brass-inlay jewelry box, stealing all my jewelry, including my Grandma's ring. I kept the jewelry box, because my husband gave it to me, but I put nothing of value in it and I don't enjoy its beauty. It's now just a thing, a reminder of a painful experience. 

I still see those men touching the ends of their guns to the temples of Neal's head. 

I looked, and saw their fingers move to the triggers of their guns. I was a milli-second away from becoming a widow. I see myself distract them from Neal, pleading in Dari with them. 

Oh for the day of Isaiah 2:4  and Micah 4:3 to come soon so there are no more men with guns. 

Come Lord, Come Quickly. 

While I wait for His return, I check and recheck the locks on my door still. 


I no longer see the gypsies roaming the streets of Ankara looking for any scrap they could pick up and sell for money to feed their families.

I no longer see the thick dust coating my furniture within an hour after the cleaner had dusted it clean. The Germans tested the air quality and found an abnormal amount of fecal matter in the air.  Good Lord!  That's the dust I shake off our clothes out on the laundry drying rack.

I no longer see the swirling dust storms enveloping my house.

I no longer see the smiling faces of the first Afghans we met - our language teachers.

I no longer see the beautiful Himilayan mountains when I took time to look up from the exhaustion of running a home in Afghanistan.

I no longer see the beautiful 100-foot pine trees circling my home, somehow majestically and courageously surviving years of war and infighting between the mujahadin. I loved those trees. They reminded me there was still a God in Heaven.

I no longer see the few lusciously green plants of my Dutch friend.

I no longer see the grieving faces of the family and friends of our friends murdered by Taliban, ....and I no longer see my murdered friends and colleagues.

I no longer see the smiles of my Afghan women friends as we drunk tea together. Lord, I miss them. I was too sad to say goodbye, and I have regretted it ever since. I have no way of contacting them. 

I no longer see the special community gathering together at the International Church of Kabul...a time, a place, and a people long gone.

I no longer see the American MRAP's and German armoured vehicles going down the streets with the gunner at the top pointing his gun at us and others to stay far away.

I no longer see the wonderful Afghan men who served in our office and were so polite, kind, respectful, professional, caring.  They were the epitome of Afghan culture, and what it could be. I know and remember there were problems, but what a privilege to have known those folks who were so patient with us and our many mistakes.

I no longer see the cheery grin of my favorite shop keeper who treated me politely when the Taliban were in power and then when they weren't.

I no longer see the bombed out houses of Karte Se, the bullet holes on the Russian bakery on the road to Karte Char. The bombed out post office at DeMazong. The bullet hole-ridden houses all over Karte Se with the exception of the International Church.  Why, to this day, is the church the only one of all of Karte Se that suffered NO DAMAGE?  What a witness to Your Power!

I no longer see the beautiful marble filling my home in Kabul and in Ankara. What a luxury! Marble is so cheap there and so expensive here.

I no longer see the Morning Glories climbing the posts on my marble veranda in all of my homes in Kabul. What an amazing gardner Kaka Aziz was!

I no longer see the gentle face of my favorite vegetable seller in Turkey who always helped me pick the best vegetables...the ones at the top back of the pile.

I no longer see my favorite Turkish shop, "Cheap Charlie's" and Mr. Adem's face as he sold me beautiful Turkish scarves at his shop across from the US Base. I could see tears in his eyes when we told him we had to leave.

I no longer see my children pushing the petal car around our yard - the car we painted to look like Lightning McQueen. How many decades earlier had that car been brought to Kabul?

I no longer see the smiling and gentle face of our evening watchman who chose to follow Christ, "because His path seems a good one to follow."

I no longer see the busyness of the Karte Se bazaar, the haggling over garlic and tomatos and second-hand naan (bread) being sold for chickens and poor people, and the second-hand clothes karachis (carts).

I no longer see MandayI Bazaar, and my favorite Pashtun shop keeper who returned my sunglasses to me - the ones I had left over a month earlier in his shop when I was looking for second-hand shoes for my son.

I no longer see "Goat's Head Corner."

I no longer see the Hindu Sikhs' spice bazaar, one of the most beautiful laid out spices sections in all of Kabul.

I no longer see Chicken Street.

I no longer see my favorite Pakistani Rug stores.

I no longer see my favorite naan seller.

I no longer see the dirty faces of beautiful children begging for handouts.

I no longer see the famous kite flying battles of Kabul.

I no longer see the gentle and smiling face of my teenage evening watchman who taught my sons the rudiments of Afghan Kiteflying.

I no longer see the grieving face of the mother of the Afghan who had become like a son to me - he was in jail because "apparently" he didn't have the correct paperwork for his motorcycle. She and I sat there and cried together as we worried about his safety of being a young kid in jail.

I no longer get to see my favorite fabric bazaars, my favorite second hand shops, and my favorite Afghan, Turkish, and Lebanese restaurants.

I no longer see Mr. Kamal, the owner of the most famous and popular Lebanese restaurant in all of Kabul...he was murdered by Taliban when he was trying to protect his customers from the Taliban attacking his restaurant one evening a few years ago.  He was so kind, and I asked him to cater so many team parties and team gatherings for us.  I remember asking him for the special spice recipe for his Fattoush salad, and he told me it was a secret.  But shhhhhhh.....I think it was the Sumac.  Someday I'll try to re-create his dish.

Wow. 

But I saw You, Lord, as you brought Afghans to courageously choose to follow You.  I saw you break down barriers between foreigners (outsiders) and Afghans (insiders). I saw You in the miraculous healing of blindness, deafness, and I saw Your Hand in the amazing miracle when You turned the salty water to sweet. You gave me a front row seat to Your work in one of the most dangerous places of the world. Help me not forget and to not let my children forget. 

Help me to see You here in Minnesota. Everything I see is so nice and clean and beautiful - it's hard to see You. We really don't need You here for day to day challenges.  

We don't seem to have the same need to look for You and see You. 

We are so impoverished in sight compared to the rest of the world.  Help me to see You in the smallest blessings, and to point out Your activity in my children's lives. 


Go To:

What I Don't Smell
What I Don't Hear

What I Don't Hear

I'm sitting here in a small town in Minnesota, USA, in my living room in a beautiful leather and fabric chair given to us on Tuesday by some partners from our main sending church.  The fake Christmas tree is glowing with soft white lights, red ribbon and a crooked star because the cat keeps pulling at the ribbons and dislodging the star, and the fake electric fireplace is on, giving a glow framed with the fake poinsettas and plastic garland.

Wow!  That's a lot of fakeness, but it sure looks nice and doesn't require a lot of maintenance.

It really looks quite nice. 

I thought I heard the Islamic call to prayer just now.   But I know I didn't, because this town is primarily Lutheran and Catholic and I've never seen a Muslim here.

The Islamic call to prayer is just in my memory from years of living in Islamic culture.

It's nice not to hear the Islamic call to prayer 5 times a day, even though for almost 2 decades I tried hard to let the 5x daily Islamic call to prayer remind me to pray for Muslims, and now I just don't pray enough for them because I don't hear the call to pray. Lord forgive me!    

What else don't I hear?

I don't hear gun shots.

I don't hear military helicopters flying over head.

I don't hear distant bombs.

I don't hear police sirens.

I don't hear Turkish neighbors complaining, the elderly Turkish couple upstairs having their nightly marital argument and the "click click" of her heels as she angrily walked around upstairs (we live in a single-family house in USA, not an apartment).

I don't hear Islamic drums beating.

I don't hear the roar from an angry mob running down my street.

I don't hear the doorbell ringing from a poor person or a guard or an official from the Turkish medical establishment selling vaccines.

I don't hear the sellers hawking their wears on the street  like the potato cart seller going by, yelling in Dari, "Kachalu, kachalu, kachalu!" (Potato potato potato!). 

I don't hear roosters crowing.

I no longer hear Dari being spoken all around me and I can understand almost everything.

I no longer hear Turkish being spoken all around me and I can pick out various words.

I no longer hear Russian, Khazakh, Pakistani English, and the lilting voice of my French colleague who always said my name so wonderfully it made me melt.

I no longer hear the teasing voices of my Irish, British, and Scottish friends. I've yet to meet a Northern Irish person I didn't like.

I don't regularly hear the words of sexual innuendo whispered loud enough for me to hear as a man cycles by but not for my husband to hear. I wait until the Afghan man is at least a block away before I tell Neal what the man just said. I am afraid Neal will beat the man to a bloody pulp, and we really came here to point people to Christ, instead of beating them up, so I wait to tell Neal.

I no longer hear the welcome voice of my husband returning home and feel the immense relief that we've both lived through another day and are together. (Today he wasn't kidnapped. Thank you Lord. Of course I still hear Neal's voice, but not like those years in Afghanistan when each day of life together was truly a gift.)

I don't hear the speakers of the police Ford Ranger truck yelling "Tez Tez Bura, Tez Tez Bura, Tez Tez Bura" (go faster, go faster, go faster) even though we were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic and literally could not move an inch. Why did they think yelling "Go faster" would help? 

I don't hear the drums and loud music of the nearby wedding hall.

I don't hear the laughter and hum of conversations from the neighborhood restaurant.

I don't hear the annoying but funny jingle of the ice cream cart cycling by (we called it hepatitus on a stick). 

I don't hear a Khakbad (dust storm) starting up and rattling my doors and windows.

I don't hear a generator running, feeding electricity to a house sucking energy for at least a few lights at night.

What a luxury life in a small town in America is.

We are so rich.

So pampered.

The silence is so "normal."

Thank you Lord for the silence, but help me to always appreciate it and not take it for granted. I don't want to ever forget what it was like to be in a place where the noise of people suffering and dying surrounded me.  So much of the world isn't enjoying the silence I am tonight.  I want my kids to know how much I value what we don't hear while living in a small town in America. 

 I ponder the mystery of the 30 minutes of silence in Heaven yet to come. 


Go To:

What I don't See
What I don't Smell