Shel Silverstein’s vastly popular children’s book, The Giving Tree, has been a fixture in most nurseries since its publication in 1964.  Both the story and the illustrations are simple. It begins with a tree who loves a little boy who would gather her leaves, climb up her trunk, and swing from her branches.  The boy was imaginative and joyful, and, Silverstein writes, “when he was tired he would sleep in her shade.”  The boy loved the tree very much, he continues, and the tree was happy.  But the story turns as so many stories of blissful innocence turn: when time begins to drive a wedge between those wistful days of youth and the call to march forward to some unknown and, in many cases, scary future.  The boy begins to grow up and want other things.  At first, it is romance, but then it turns to money – the material – at which point the tree offers her apples for the boy to sell. That would make him some money. That will make him happy. But the boy continues to grow up, and as such, his desires change. He is now too busy to climb the branches of the tree. He wants a wife. He wants a house at which point the tree offers her branches to make that house. And the tree, Silverstein writes, is happy. But the boy continues to grow and soon becomes an old man who wants to flee from the world. He wants a boat so he can sail away. He is sad.  Life got to be too much. So the tree offers her trunk, and the boy cuts it down and makes his boat. But the tree only feigns happiness. The truth is much more stark.  She is sad and lonely. Years later, the boy eventually returns, but the tree tells him that she has nothing more to give – no more apples, no more branches, not even a trunk – but the boy only wants a quiet place to sit and rest. The story is worth summarizing because it is important to see the juxtaposition that runs throughout: the passing of time and self-sacrifice.  Time waits for no man, but if we remain stuck on that reality – become transfixed by our powerlessness in the face of aging, in ourselves and others – then we risk forfeiting the opportunity to serve and love others. he tree could have pleaded with him to stay – to do his best along with her to preserve a precious moment in time when there was seemingly nothing but bliss and joy. But the tree chose a different tack. She emptied herself to serve his needs.  She died unto herself for her beloved friend, tethering her life journey to his. This underscores the poignancy of this children’s story, read to countless infants before bedtime. The boy represents so many of us. He wants what so many of us want: nothing bad but typical. A spouse. A home. A good job. But, in the end, it wearies him to the bones. He comes to the end of the story a broken and fatigued person who wants merely to sit and rest his weary bones. A children’s story, dear listeners. A deep and profound review of a long and difficult life in a children’s story.  It might not be a stretch to consider that Silverstein was writing for both listener and reader. The book certainly makes an impact on both. Even though Silverstein had a Jewish upbringing, I have to wonder why he made the decision to have as the boy’s lifelong friend a tree.  I do not want to be guilty of imposing a worldview on this special book, but his choice is cause for wonder.  Where else do we see self-sacrifice and a tree?  I will leave my interpretation there.  Any way you take it, The Giving Tree serves as a beautiful reminder of what truly matters.  For the little one listening in a parent’s lap, it is a blueprint for how to live; for the parent him or herself, it is the best way to pay it forward.  Those blessed with the responsibility to nuture and guide others should understand in the full that everything is expected of them because that is the measure of true and everlasting love.  We are to hold nothing back.  We are to encourage and uplift.  Until we are stumps.  Places of rest.  Cradles or mangers, they are both the same thing.