Skinned knees. A freshly cut set of house keys. Whispers shared by friends in the evening breeze.
Nearly 200 years I have been standing here. Listening, learning about life, loss and love.
I remember the soft dirt below me beginning to change. Wagon wheels rattling on dirt paths change to cobblestone streets with automobile engines rumbling. Linden Street grows with me each year as I inhale, expanding my trunk and stretching my branches to shake off the sleep of winter. Each time, the world below me is just a bit different.
Sometimes the change is imperceptible. Other times, unmistakable.
In 1927, I hear the rumblings of new voices. Those of Catholic Charities coming to Colorado, bringing with it a mission of compassion. Families gathering, communities leaning on each other and hope taking root in a new way.
I see the community around me searching for shelter, safety and belonging – much like the birds in the air and the beetles on the ground who seek solace below my canopy. Except, I feel the weight of the ones who aren’t successful in finding their way. Their spirits drop as my leaves do in autumn. The winds bring rumors of a woman fighting to support them.
Later, in 1987, I remember another tree growing beside me. The woman, Sister Mary Alice Murphy, plants it at my feet. Its roots are unlike any I know. They form not in dirt, but in air. Stories, not water, nourish it. They cling to the hearts of those who hear them. As they take root, they don’t grow a wooden trunk like mine, but one made of brick.
This tree has an unusual, but apt name – The Mission. It has a mission to extend a healing ministry. It grows to provide refuge. Laughter, prayer and sometimes even tears fill its walls.
This tree does not grow quiet in the cold, as I do. Instead, it breathes and stretches its branches in the biting winds of winter. As I rest, I dream of children laughing, of a snowball missing its mark and thudding softly against my side. I feel the warmth of a back pressed against me, seeking comfort I am happy to give. I hear the faint sobs of a mother carrying the weight of her world, caring for her young.
It’s as if my branches extend – I take in these voices, the laughter and sobs alike, as though I need them to breathe.
But lately, they are harder to hear.
Today, my friend beside me has a new name – Samaritan House Fort Collins – and is part of a bigger tree that offers warmth in the winter, rest in the summer and a chance to begin again. That bigger tree, Catholic Charities, stands nearly 100 years now.
The voices from these trees are not harder to hear because there are fewer or because they are farther away. In truth, there are more. Feet shuffling. The whoosh of the bus door. The jingle of a bike lock. So many sounds that I can only catch glimpses of the voices beneath me. The chatter of a child learning to tie their shoelaces. A distant whistle of a father waiting at a bus stop. The humming of a woman softly singing the songs of her past.
Together, these sounds weave a song of their own – one of hope and transformation. I am amongst a community, watching as it grows and for one of my two centuries, Catholic Charities has been part of that story. Looking to the future, I know that the roots of compassion planted here will continue to grow, reaching toward tomorrow.