From Stories for a Teen's Heart (Multnomah Publishers 1999)

Full Circle

By Janna L. Graber

From my bedroom I heard the sharp flip of a light switch, and then the thud of my father’s footsteps in the hallway.   I turned over in my bed and groaned, knowing exactly what his next words would be.

“It’s 7:00.  Time to wake up!” came his cheery voice.

I pulled the pillow over my head.  “Can’t I sleep in a little bit this morning?” I complained.   After all, I thought, I was 18 years old now.     

“We've got chores to do,” my dad replied in a voice that said I should know better.  “Everyone’s ready for breakfast already.”   

I grumbled as I got ready.  Why couldn’t I live in a normal family? I thought.

By the time I got downstairs, my family was already seated around the long oak table in our kitchen.  My seven younger brothers and sisters, ranging from age sixteen down to age one, sat poised to pounce on the food as soon as the blessing was said.  

With eight children, five of them adopted, my family was not the normal suburban household.  To top it off, we lived in a farmhouse on a small acreage that was surrounded by the Denver suburbs.  The idea of doing chores – feeding livestock, cleaning barns, and gardening – was foreign to my city friends.   While they slept late or watched cartoons on Saturday mornings, I was doing chores with my family – something I was beginning to dislike.   

Breakfast had been devoured by the time I finally turned to my dad.  "What's the job today?" I asked, making it clear that I thought I should still be asleep in bed. 

"The orchard," he replied.  "It needs watering and weeding.  If we work together, it'll be done in an hour." 

The "orchard" was nothing more than twenty knee-high saplings.   Two of my sisters pulled the hoses out to water, while mom and dad got down on their knees to weed.   I grabbed a hose too, and half-heartedly pointed water on the trees struggling to survive in the dry Colorado soil.  

"No, you've got to let it soak it," my father said as he walked over to inspect my work.  "Keep the hose on them longer." 

My frustration was hard to hide.  "Why do we have to water these dumb sticks anyway?  They'll never amount to anything!" 

Dad looked at me evenly, as if considering a proper response.  "These "dumb sticks" will someday grow into beautiful trees.  Your mom and I want a nice home for our family; it's a dream we have."  He paused, and I saw his eyes scan our home, then turn to rest on my siblings.  "Most dreams take hard work and time," he continued.  "You need to keep that in mind." 

With that, he went back to work, leaving me to consider his words.  I looked at my family.  Mom was helping two of my brothers pull weeds around the raspberry bushes, while a sister looked over the two youngest who were playing in the grass.  My dad had chosen the hardest job of planting another young sapling in the hard clay earth. 

I saw sweat on his brow as he toiled under the searing sun.  Why, I wondered, did he do it?  Why did he work so hard for us?   

"Hey dad," my brother Philip called, "come look at my work!" 

My dad walked over to Philip, who at 12, was struggling to fix a broken fence.  Philip's work was clumsy, and bent nails protruded from the uneven slats he had replaced.  But he beamed with pride as he showed off his handiwork.

I snickered.  Couldn't Philip see that the job would need to be redone? 

My dad’s response surprised me.  "Good job!" he said. "You went to it and got it done!"

The scene made me wonder.  It would have been easier if dad had done the job himself.   What benefit was there for my brother to bungle through the work?

And why didn't we move into a house that required less upkeep?  Did my parents enjoy all this work, or did they have another motive?       

The home we lived in now looked nothing like when we had bought it.   Built during the depression, the white farmhouse had consisted of two rooms and a tiny added-on kitchen.   But my parents had seen the home's potential.  They spent the next few years remodeling and landscaping.  When the house got too small, they built on – three times – until the once-small farmhouse was a lovely home just right for raising eight children.  I had never really thought about all my parents had done for us – until now.

I was quiet as I went back to my work, wondering about my parents and what they were trying to teach us. 

Years have flown by since that day in the orchard, but I’ve thought a lot about my father’s words. “Most dreams take hard work and time," he had said.  "You need to keep that in mind." 

Those sentiments echoed in my mind through college, a new career, and marriage.  In fact, my father’s words and example have become so engrained, that sometimes they begin to slip out. 

When my husband and I purchased our first home, it was clear the place needed some work.  The bare landscape needed attention, and I purchased dozens of flowers, bushes, and tiny trees. 

A few days later, I invited my parents for a visit, and proudly showed them my purchases.   

"Let's put them in," my mom said, as she headed to the garage for a shovel. 

We eagerly planned and got to work.  I took the shovel, and had begun to dig a hole when I stopped.   There was something missing. 

I ran inside the house, and found my two daughters who were watching a video with a friend.

"Come on outside and help," I called.  "We can plant these trees together." 

A surprised look came over their faces as I showed them how to hold the trees as I planted them.   

"But these don't look like trees," my oldest exclaimed.  "Why do we have to do this?" 

My answer came without thinking.  "If we do it together, the job goes much faster.  Besides, they may not look like much now," I told her, "but with a little work and time, they'll grow into something beautiful." 

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father grin.