Sitting Under My Mango Tree

January 12, 2013

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. (James 1:17 NIV)

Last night, as a reward for enduring a week of frenetic activity, I crawled into bed with a good book and some peaceful music.  I heard a phrase in one song about sitting under a mango tree.  I don't remember what the rest of the song was about.  Just that phrase caught my attention, because I realized that some of my favorite childhood times were spent sitting under my mango tree.  It seems so far off now, but the picture of peace painted by the lyricist was actually a part of my childhood experience.  There was sweet peace there.  Long, lazy afternoons were spent perched in the branches radiating out from the central trunk of my mango tree.  There were two levels that I could climb to nesting places, and from my nest I could overlook my whole domain like a queen gazing down benevolently on her queendom.  If I chose to pluck a leaf and tear it, the sticky sap had the fresh pungent aroma of ripening mangoes.  That tree comforted me in so many ways; it smelled good, it was easy to climb, it provided lush shade from the tropical sun, and it was a haven, a hiding place when I just needed some quiet.  Birds sang to me from the upper branches and insects buzzed, providing the background trills that said that my life was sparkling with the magic of God's smile.

A favorite pastime was to lean far forward from my second-story perch, grab the lower branches of my nurse tree, and swing down to the ground.  It was almost like flying.  When we played hide-and-seek, the mango tree was base.  The swing set was nestled in its cool shade.  The grass underneath tickled my bare feet softly.

Sometimes I sat with my back against her solid trunk, sheltered from the sunshine, reading my mystery or writing in my notebook, when suddenly the sky would grow dark and foreboding.  In surprise I would gather my belongings for a quick escape to my dry house before the monsoon rains poured from the storm cloud that obscured the sun, making a chilling, threatening shadow, but then the shadow would blow past and the warm sunshine would once again kiss the earth.  I would spread out to read and write some more, or I would go swing on my swing.  Another shadow would threaten rain, then sunshine warmed the earth.  Shadow. . . sun . . . shadow . . . sun . . . shadow, then the winds would blow the heaviest clouds over, pouring out sudden buckets of rainwater, watering my tree and drenching me and my books, if I did not escape soon enough.

That is the memory that attaches itself to this verse.  God is the Giver of good gifts, like my mango tree and my books, and my good, dry house . . . and the warm tropical rains.  He is not changeable like those shifting shadows.  He is faithful and good, and He pours buckets of enduring love on my life forever.