Mistletoe

I have been reading the book Faith Precedes the Miracle by Spencer W. Kimball. I read this story this morning and decided it was worth passing on. Jim Smith told this to Brother Kimball.

Long years ago when I was a little boy and rode the range with the men, tending the cattle and helping with the round-up, I used to look forward to the "rest stop" under the wide spreading branches of a most beautiful tree on Ash Creek.

How we used to enjoy it and admire it with its uniform shape and its thick green foliage! How we came to look forward to it, depend on it, and almost love it as we came to think of it as our very own, having been planted there for our comfort and to satisfy our needs.

Its green coolness was a haven of protection for the birds that made their nests in its branches and perched on the outer twigs for their chorus rehearsals.

The cattle sought out its cool shade and the soft pulverized ground under it for their afternoon relaxation.

And we thirsty cowboys always made a stop to get a cool drink from the canteen and to stretch our tired, cramped limbs for a few moments as we rested from the hot summer Arizona sun.

As we lay on the soft cool earth on our backs and looked up into the tree, we saw high in one of the limbs a little sprig of mistletoe. It stood out in contrast from the grayer leafage of the tree and was not unattractive in its dark green dress with its little whitish berries.

I imagined I could hear the gigantic tree saying to the little mistletoe, "Ha, little friend, you are welcome to stay with me. In my strength, I can easily spare you a little of my sap, which I create from the sun and air and the water under the creek bed. There is plenty for all, and you in your smallness can do me no harm!"

Years later when I was a man, I again came up Ash Creek, again driving cattle. Imagine my consternation and sadness to find the beautiful tree dry and dead, its long jagged branches reaching high like the bony fingers of a skeleton. Not even an uninhabited bird nest graced its forks, no cattle lazed under its branches, no foliage covered its grim nakedness, and no welcome was extended to traveler or cowboy to take shelter under its nude wretchedness; already its limbs were being hacked away by woodcutters.

The infinitely beautiful tree of my youth was now the ugliest tree on Ash Creek.

In seeking for the cause of such devastation, I saw hanging from the limbs of the tree great clusters of mistletoe--the parasite of the tree. The translucent, glutinous berries perhaps had been carried by a bird or the wind. The stickiness of the berry served to attach it to the tree limb or host plant until germination was complete, the little sprout always turning toward the point of attachment.

As Brother Kimball pondered this story, this thought came to him: How like the little mistletoe is the first cigarette or first drink! How like this predatory plant is the first lie or dishonest act! How like parasitic growth is the first crime.

Who would ever dream that a sticky little white mistletoe berry would overpower and kill a huge beautiful tree, a thousand times its size?

I don't think I need to add anything to that but it really hit me for some reason this morning.