In a small town located in the most desolate area in Colorado, there was a small grassy hill surrounded by a dense green forest. On the very top of this hill, there stood an old cottage, built with sturdy logs and stones to fit the needs of the elderly couple who lived there. This cottage had been around for a long time—ever since the old man was twelve years old. But there it continued to stand, year after year, without hardly any cracks or other evidence of its age.
The people living in this cottage were named Mr. and Mrs. Jones. They were the kindest people you would ever meet—that is, if you were to travel to this desolate area and meet them, for they never left their little hill except to go into the forest to get water from the stream or to visit their farm. Ah, yes! The farm. This farm was Mr. Jones' most prized possession. He grew wheat on the fertile soil, as well as corn, peas, green beans, and other vegetables. He also had three young apple trees which were just beginning to produce fruit. Mr. and Mrs. Jones loved to come down to their farm together when the weather was nice and gaze proudly at their beautiful crops and listen to the water trickling in the stream and the song birds tweeting their lovely melodies.
One morning, Mr. and Mrs. Jones had a visitor at their little old cottage: a poor man with ragged clothes who was covered in dirt and grime from head to toe. Mrs. Jones, being the kind woman that she was, felt sorry for the poor man and invited him in. She gave him a warm bath and new clothes and even fitted his feet with a new pair of shoes. The man thanked her kindly and, after a meal, was on his way.
About a week later, the man stopped by the cottage again. This time, he had a pile of muddy leaves and broken sticks in his hands. When Mr. and Mrs. Jones asked what in the world he was carrying, the man solemnly looked up at them and answered, "It's a tree. It's a cherry tree. I found it lying on the ground, all mangled like this as if someone had trampled on it. I know it's broken and filthy, but I think we can fix it. I know you're a farmer, and good with trees, Mr. Jones. Can you help me?" Mrs. Jones couldn't help but chuckle to herself at the man's question. How could anyone repair something as ruined as that? she thought to herself. She looked at her husband, expecting him to feel the same way. But Mr. Jones was not thinking of anything like this. Instead, a sorrowful and deeply sympathetic look had come over his face. He reached out and gently took the broken little tree from the man's hands and carried it in his strong arms down to the little stream. There, he knelt down and rinsed off the mud and debris from the little tree and wiped it on his own cotton shirt. He then quietly brought the little cherry tree up to his farm. He dug a hole next to his apple trees and planted it, using a sturdy stick and some strong red string to support it. He then gave it some water and stood back to admire it. Mrs. Jones silently watched her husband, wondering why he would go to so much trouble to try to save such a worthless plant.
Nevertheless, Mr. Jones cared for the tree day after day, week after week, month after month, until eventually it was strong enough to stand up on its own without the support of the stick. The little tree made remarkable progress and by the next spring had even begun to bloom. Mr. Jones loved the cherry tree with all his heart. He took care of it every day and pruned it so that it turned out to be just as healthy and strong as his apple trees. And, when summer arrived, the tree even produced an abundant crop of cherries!
Mr. and Mrs. Jones sat down together a few days after picking the cherries and ate a few of them. They turned out to be some of the best fruit they had ever tasted! After a few moments, Mrs. Jones finally got enough courage to ask her husband why he had bothered to save the tree in the first place and how he had known that it would grow to be so beautiful and produce such delicious fruit. Mr. Jones smiled and simply said, "Cannot love save even the most deeply broken?"
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