Prompt: Read The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, and then write your own extended metaphor. Choose an object or event in nature that a child can relate to in order to illustrate an important or spiritual lesson.
As soon as I looked at this assignment ( yesterday night around ten o’clock), I knew I would write about the moon. The title of this piece is actually a code-phrase that Mollie and I adopted from Jim Elliot’s journal. It was an expression that Jim used to remind himself of God’s unchanging character. Saying “the moon is round” reminds us that no matter what we see, we can trust that God is good. Dedicated to my sweet Haitian “ti fi” — girls, always remember that God is good
The full moon hung low in the inky purple sky , looking down on the sleeping land. Far below, a girl slid open her second story window and gazed up at the moon.
“The moon is round tonight,” she whispered quietly into the cool night air.
And far up in the sky, the moon heard her whisper.
“The moon is always round,” he whispered back.
Then the girl fell asleep under his gentle glow, snuggled up beneath quilts in her bed beside the window. The next day, she ate cinnamon rolls for breakfast and played imaginary games with her little sister. Together they climbed the willow, chased the birds, and hid beneath the sumac trees like Indians.
The girl loved life and for a long time afterward, she paid no attention to the moon or the passing of seasons. And the moon waxed, and the moon waned.
Then one day, the girl moved across the country to a new house and a city that she didn’t like at all. She noticed that she couldn’t see the stars anymore because of the city’s lights. But she could still see the moon. So she walked onto her back porch to gaze at him. He seemed smaller than last time. Less round.
“Are you still round, moon?” she asked him doubtfully.
“I am always round,” replied the moon from high in the inky purple sky.
Life sped forward for the girl and she often forgot to look out her window at the waxing-waning moon. Until one day, she flew far across the ocean to an island in the Caribbean sea. Hispaniola–an island cut across the middle, through the heart. One side bleeds harder than the other. Haiti. The girl spent her days there holding babies in urine soaked diapers, braiding bracelets with delightful new friends, and reading to the children who listened. She loved them. And they were orphans. Her heart broke for the island, for the kids.
In the morning, before the sun rose, she sat on the concrete roof of the guest house, looking out over the darkness that was Port-Au-Prince. And there, low in the black-blue sky, she saw a sliver of the moon.
“You do not look round at all,” she accused him.
“The moon is always round,” he replied. “Always-forever-round.”
“Why don’t you you look it?” she cried in frustration.
“Shadows.” He whispered into the morning. “Shadows can never change me. They can only change what you see.”
And the next night, the girl could not see the moon at all.
She left Haiti the following day, flew back to the states, to plenty. But she never forgot her friends, the orphans, or the missing moon.
Then one day, she looked out her window again. She hadn’t looked in a very long time. There, swelling and full, she saw the moon.
“Round?” she asked.
“Always and forever,” he answered.
“Even then?” she asked.
Shadows?” she asked.
“Shadows,” he answered.
And she believed him with all of her heart.