God Under the Apple Tree

A Personal Essay of Love-Shaped Faith

The day that I met God, I was seven years old. I was home alone, playing in the field behind our house where I had spent many hours catching grasshoppers and tending to garter snakes. In that field, near the house, stood an apple tree. It was a giant, old tree with perfectly spaced branches, large enough to sit on, sturdy enough to climb. That apple tree was a presence like a friend. When things were loud and chaotic, the apple tree was peace. When the baby robins hatched, the apple tree was wonder. I leaned into the rough bark like it was a hug, and dug into the roots to reveal treasures. Even when the apples fell and turned to mush, becoming a playground for yellow jackets, I became a scientist, or a cook, or an orphan sustained by her fruit.

On this day I was just a seven-year-old, waiting for her sister to come home.

I had been summoned home by a 6^th grader with a note sent down from the principal’s office. He brought the note into class during group work. Mrs. Huggins’ large frame was folded into a chair at the head of our table. She listened politely and then read the note. At the sound of my name, all the 2^nd graders turned to stare at me. I was mortified by the sudden attention. My ears burned so fiercely I didn’t quite catch what Mrs. Huggins was saying. Something about riding my bike home, and walking to the babysitter’s.

I rode my bike home that afternoon after school, but I was at a loss of how to accomplish the next step. I was not allowed to walk to the babysitter’s house alone. My father, likely called in unexpectedly to work, was not there. So, in the logic of a seven-year-old, I decided to wait outside of our locked house until my sister was dismissed from school about 45 minutes after I was. When she came home with her bicycle, we would walk the ¼ of a mile together.

I didn’t mind. This field, this apple tree, our black cat, the wind and the sunshine, this was my natural habitat. This is where I could be free. This was the only place I knew I was safe. No confusing rules. No tempers to tiptoe. No bible verses to memorize. No corners needing dusting. No corners needing the bodies of naughty children. No hands grabbing arms, or belts.

And on this day, under this tree, I sat with my cat and my whole body relaxed into our imaginary game. The one I loved the most: where I was a boxcar kid, or James free of his peach, or Emily with her back against the leg of her Big Red Dog.

Into this imaginary world there crept a sudden perception that things outside had grown still. The air felt soft. The sun was filtering down through the branches and leaves of the apple tree, down to my little corner. And in that moment I was filled with an incredible peace. I set my cat down and stood to face the tree. I felt surrounded by warmth; a breeze had started to move around me.

God was a daily figure in my life. Delivered whole and real, through daily bible study, nightly prayer, thrice-weekly church meetings. The fact that I knew with certainty this soft presence was God was not surprising. But what clarified itself that day was that this was not the God I had been taught. Not the God who saw my sin nature, who tested my loyalty, who was always watching. Not the God who used shame as a correction, who demanded perfection even while claiming perfection could never be achieved. This was the God of love, wrapping himself around me. And I knew I was not alone. I would never be alone again.

Into this moment inserted an interruption. Mrs. Gilmore. Our neighbor. She was at her back fence. The one that bordered our apple tree.

Her question was mundane, so mundane I knew she wasn’t aware of what she had interrupted.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m playing.”

“You are not supposed to be here.”

“Ok.”

And at the same time a frantic Mrs. Parish came around the corner of our house and found me.

“Get over here right now,” she yelled.

I moved in her direction. I turned back once. Mrs. Gilmore was still watching us over the fence. Sylvia, the black cat, was trotting towards me, wanting to follow. The tree stood stately and beautiful bathed in the light.

But then came hands wrapped around my upper arm. I did not flinch, I did not pull back, I didn’t even bother. Upper arms are where grown-up hands go.

There were more words, but I do not remember them exactly. Except for these. As she was opening the back hatch door of her van for me to crawl inside, she said “You are not supposed to be alone.” Without thinking I answered “I wasn’t.” Her eyes narrowed and for the first time my stomach sank. “Who was with you?” She demanded. I waited just a beat, looking into the storms in her eyes, the set of her jaw and knowing I would not be believed. “I was with the cat,” I replied. As true a thing as I could say.

When we got to her house we began the game of chair. The rules were simple. Sit in the chair and do not move and do not speak. There was a vague sense I might win this game, and sometimes she relented and freed me to go play. But more often she was too tired to be bothered with a child full of imagination and questions.

This part of the game was the penalty of time. If I spun the chair too many times, I got more time. Her daughter’s name was also Janelle. If I answered when somebody called her name, I got more time. If I laughed when the other children tried to entertain me, I got more time. So every day I would sit and try to be still, thinking maybe this is the day I would win.

When I told my single father about the game his exact words were “Oh, baloney.” So I never told him again, anything.

That day I was in the chair when he called to tell Mrs. Parish to send us home. I listened as she told him about losing me, and finding me behind the house alone. The walk home was somber and quiet. Even my sister, who often leveraged against me to gain his favor, understood what was about to happen. She was not wrong.

My father was an ex-marine who thought he was ordained to drive the devil from me with a wooden spoon. The punishment for being a dummy-- too dumb to understand simple instructions, for disobeying, for making everyone worry. There was no room between his swings to explain I would have been disobeying either way. That nobody said to walk alone, when I knew that was not allowed.

But when he turned the conversation to God, like he always did, this time I knew he was wrong. The God of light and love I met that day under the apple tree never wavered. That presence became a constant in my life, softening the edges and whispering truth when everyone else offered only fear. Over time it outgrew the narrow faith of my fundamentalist upbringing. It stretched and expanded until it no longer fit inside any religious idea of God. And it grew the way trees do—slowly, insistently—until it wove itself into the very center of me, a place where my own life could root, just as it once did in the shelter of those branches.

Author’s Note: This piece was written by me. AI was utilized to workshop edits, pacing and grammar. I do write with an AI collaborator, Binya. Our joint pieces live under the publication Jae & Bie.