“A backyard is a novel about us, and when we sit there on a summer day, we hear the dialogue and see the characters.” Garrison Keillor

The birds flitter from high branches down to the patches of yellow grass that litter the Truxton’s yard. They seem joyfully unaware of the silent man who keeps vigil on them every afternoon.

Dad sits quietly beneath the shade of the ndu, its grass roof stretching above him like a separate sky. His soft eyes move carefully from tiny wings to the bright colors on the backs of these West African birds that peck at the seeds near his feet. They chirp quietly, serenading the stillness of ferns that surround the ndu and climb the base of the old Flame Tree.

 A small bird leaps from the ground and darts up towards the branches of the large tree, carrying Dad’s gaze with it. His eyes linger there, caught by the brilliance of red flowers that spring from its branches and shower down in petals upon the grass and the dry roof of the ndu.

The West African savannah is dotted with an endless sea of low thorn bushes and tall grasses. Yet there exists a giant among them: the Flame Tree. It towers above the land with its broad branches that provide shade when the sun beats hard, and shelter when the rains cascade. Its red flowers paint splashes of color onto the persistent greens and browns of the landscape. Its large roots pull up through the soil and serve as an evening resting place for sleepy villagers, while strong branches facilitate the games of young children. Seed pods dry into shaker instruments to use in church, and the strong wood from its limbs are burned for heat and for cooking. The Flame Tree has served Nigeria for generations, protecting and providing for its people. Yet of all the Flame trees that have rooted themselves deep within Plateau soil, the largest and most beautiful stands behind the Truxton’s house, stretching its branches over their tin roof and over their lives.

Dad notices that his thoughts have been wandering with the moving branches above him. The tips sway slightly in the gentle breeze, dropping three red petals onto the grass.    

This tree hasn’t always been there. It took shape many years ago with the first arrival of Charles and Beverly Truxton in Nigeria. They were new missionaries, eager to experience a foreign culture and to work side by side with Her beautiful people. Yet they must have moved with some trepidation…they had needed to leave behind them everything that was familiar. They left behind family. They left behind friends. They left behind the comfort of certainty. Were they doing the right thing? How much of a struggle would it be? And what if they decided to have children? What then?

They settled in a small town in Plateau State, above the humid heat that the rest of the country lay in. A house made of cement block awaited their arrival, sitting patiently behind the other houses that lined the dirt road on the hospital compound. It was empty, but soon filled with the love and determination of two human souls. Together they grew a passion for the Nigerian people that crossed their paths each day. They prized the beauty of the savannah and the Plateau, and they felt the wonder of the giant Flame trees which spread their long full branches over the dusty earth. They, too, felt its mysterious and unexpected security.

As the years passed, the Flame tree grew. And as the new Flame tree sunk its roots deep into Nigerian soil, the new missionaries planted their lives deep into Nigerian life. And the tree grew with them, standing firm beside their house, spreading its branches over their tin roof, reminding them of the care with which they planted and cultivated this new seed in a new country. It became their symbol of the beauty that can lie in one single act of trust. It became a favorite story for their three children who through the years played on that tree, hanging from its branches, crawling over its roots, begging to hear the story again and again about the big tree that came from a tiny seed.

But time can never stand still, so the years ran by us and now all of the stories have been told, and all of the children have grown and traveled back across the ocean, and all the fear and excitement of newness and change has settled into a kind of peace. Yet through the years of growth and change, there was one thing in the Truxton family’s yard in Jos that never moved: the Flame tree that Dad planted. It remained there, solid and constant, and I believe it still does. It has endured. With the flourishing of its flowers, the spreading of its branches, the strength of its trunk, the laughter in its memories, and the depth of its roots, the Flame tree grew to be the largest, strongest, and most beautiful of all in its area. And I do truly believe that it’s because it was nurtured with the most love.