Go Beyond

En route to the Rio Grande Valley in South Texas

I took a couple of vacation days this week to make a quick trip to South Texas to visit my Dad. It’s been a while since our last visit and, because Dad had surgery last week, I wanted to see him before I leave the country again in April. So, I tossed a few things in my truck and headed South on Tuesday afternoon.

I enjoy having windshield time on Texas highways. This time I decided to not pass the time by passively listening to the radio or iTunes. Instead, I used my time on the road to pray and to think deeply about several things that have been stirring around in my heart. It was time well spent.

Every time I have made this trip home over the past 34-plus-years, there is a point along the way where I begin to feel the gravitational pull of South Texas. For me, it’s when I turn West off of US Route 77 onto Texas State Highway 285 and drive the desolate 22-mile stretch between Riviera and Falfurrias. The range on either side of this road is riddled with gnarled mesquite trees.

Call me crazy, but I like mesquite trees. The mesquite is the tree of my youth — the first tree I learned to identify and the first tree I climbed as a kid. We had little grass on the lawn of our home in the small town of Mission, but we had plenty of mesquite trees. I had many an adventure in and around these trees and many fond memories as a result.

The name of the tree is an Hispanicized version of the Aztec word mizquiti. This hardy tree refuses to grow straight and has a disposition as defiant as the rugged environment in which it thrives. And, its gnarled wood is as hard as the vaqueros, the cowboys, that settled South Texas. The mesquite is one tough tree — certainly harder to kill than any weed.

The mesquite tree is a survivor that laughs in the face of drought. It has a tap-root that can reach depths in excess of a hundred feet and lateral roots that spread in all directions, each designed to drink in the life-giving moisture that enables it to survive in harsh environments. South Texas ranchers either love them or hate them, but there is no middle ground.

Texas writer J. Frank Dobie loved mesquite trees. He wrote, “I could ask for no better monument over my grave than a good mesquite tree, its roots down deep like those of people who belong to the soil, its hardy branches, leaves and fruit holding memories of the soil.” However, pioneer Texas rancher W.T. Waggoner called the mesquite “the devil with roots,” adding “It scabs my cows, spooks my horses, and gives little shade.”

I think that if King David, the great writer of so many of the psalms in the Bible, had lived in South Texas, he would have liked the mesquite tree. And if he had been a vaquero tending cattle among mesquites instead of being a shepherd, the third verse of the first psalm might have looked like this instead:

The righteous man is like a mesquite tree
firmly planted on a barren range
with a tap-root reaching deep for moisture
in order to yield its fruit in its season
and to sustain leaves that do not wither
so that in whatever he does he prospers.

So, I like the ubiquitous mesquite tree. I always know that I am a little closer to home when I catch sight of their gnarled trunks in the distance and see them waving to me with their feathery leaves when I turn on to Highway 285 to begin the final leg of my journey home. It is the tree of my youth and a reminder to always persevere.