One of my college roommates told me of a sermon she once heard about trees — that the harder the wind blows in their branches, the further they spread their roots into the ground.
She thought of this lesson every time she walked past the biggest, most beautiful tree rising above our campus chapel. She would meditate on the teaching of the tree while the sun sank past it on those cold, sleep deprived winter evenings, and she would pray that she might become more like the tree.
In the end, the tree was hollowed and rotting inside and had to be cut down. It was a sad day for my roommate, and for allegories.
So I try to avoid twisting so many little things into life lessons; even the best ones break down (whispers: and rot inside. see? they are almost irresistible).
One of my toddler students sneezed on me today, sputtered, and confessed, “I blessed on you.” I am feeling both blessed . . . and sick. And my antibiotics seem unable to affect either condition.
I was going to share that I’m finding the whole human condition to be an adventure in learning how to deal with being both sick and blessed.
But I will refrain.