SermonStudio

I remember the first time I planted trees. It was almost thirty years ago, on a dairy farm on the side of a mountain in Oregon. The farm belonged to two brothers in their eighties, shy bachelors who lived in the house they had built in the latter 1920s. The Steinhaurs had emigrated from Germany and had hoped to marry and raise families in America. Somehow marriage had never happened for either of them, so they grew old together, the big house echoing with the clomp of their boots in the kitchen, and the sound of their voices at breakfast each morning, planning the day's chores.