When they’re still attached, a tree’s branches can’t help but resemble lungs, bronchi and bronchioles and all, and isn’t that really what they are, helping the earth breathe? But when those branches fall and come to rest on the ground, they look more like arthritic fingers, bony and knobby with knuckles and brittle joints.

Strong winds from last Thursday night, continuing well into Friday, helped the trees on the ridge shed what they no longer needed, and after a post-market nap yesterday, I stooped to gather them. We’ll use these to start some future sweat fires and be grateful for the trees’ sacrifice as we carry armfuls of them back to the lodge where they’ll be added to a growing pile of similar kindling. I wonder what our prayer life would be like if we needed to wrestle these bones from the trees before they were ready to give them up? Humbled once again by the way the land has it all worked out. She gives and we stoop to pick it all up, with thankfulness.

I was a solo act at the market yesterday, from loading up to setting up, bantering in the most friendly way with our sweet customers and then dismantling it all before hauling it back out to the car for the ride home. Patrick had a rough week at work and needed the rest so I kissed him on the forehead before heading out in the dark, my heart gladdened by how this side hustle of ours can easily be managed by one. I pulled up U2’s “Magnificent” on YouTube and sang my way to work, honking only once to keep a trio of young does from crossing the road in front of me and changing my plans. On impulse at a traffic light in the first small town I passed through, I texted my sister Peggy to see how she was feeling. She and her husband Rob had returned home from their holiday trip to Tybee Island with head colds that were lingering far too long into the new year. If you know my sister, you know that she pushes through the hard times with a determined grace, so I wasn’t surprised by her near-instant reply. The worst of their symptoms in the rearview mirror now, they were thinking about coming out to the market and would we be there? A few more texts and we’d be seeing each other at our booth down the way from the pickle vendor in a couple more hours.

Let me insert a small public service announcement on behalf of the good people of Savannah and Tybee Island. A candy shop on the Savannah river (aptly called “River Street Sweets”) concocts the most exquisite pralines and I’ve grown far too fond of them from our previous visits to the area. When Peggy asked what she could bring back, I answered before she even finished the question (and might have mentioned something about the chocolate ones), and if it wasn’t too much trouble, would they be making their customary stop at Chu’s gas station/quick mart on Tybee across from the condo rental office for a large styrofoam container of Cajun boiled peanuts, that delightfully messy-to-eat but oh-so-salty-good southern road trip snack? Another smiling “yes” and it was all arranged.

When they arrived at the market, Peggy was carrying a small canvas tote bag and that same knowing smile. Hugs all around in between our first customers and then she started unpacking. First out was a pair of copper earrings etched with a rustic tree design, then a large plastic container of boiled peanuts which she’d made herself and the family had voted—they like them a bit better than the gas station ones (apologies to whatever employee at Chu’s has the honor of taking the 5lb bag of pre-seasoned peanuts from the freezer and putting them in the heated crock on the counter between the chips and the soda for customers to help themselves. When we visit Tybee again, I’m sure they’ll do just fine as an end-of-the-trip snack). I spied the red plastic bag at the bottom of the canvas tote and knew what was coming next—a pecan and caramel treat fit for the gods.

It didn’t stop there. Peggy offered to get me coffee from the vendor a few stalls away, and when she brought it back all steaming and cozy, asked if I wanted cream or sugar and she’d go back and get it for me (which I did, so…she off she went). After a rush of customers and more catching up, she asked me if I wanted pickles from the vendor down the way whose lines tend to wrap around the market hallways (yep, they’re that good) and after I’d hedged a bit, said “garlic, or anything dill”, and she was off again, returning with the goods that would later add flavorful crunch to my tuna salad lunch back at home. Another rush of customers, two lines at one point, with Rob swiping the credit cards and Peggy bagging up the purchases.

If you look up “hospitality” in the dictionary, you’ll see our mom’s picture. Peggy learned this trait at her knee and infused it with her own deep commitment to generosity (look up that word and there she’ll be). She married in kind; Rob’s heart is consummately cheerful and his genuine desire to be helpful enters a room before he does. In their almost forty years together, they’ve raised three children into adulthoods marked by humor, food and thoughtfulness without limits, and these young ones plucked for themselves spouses who keep the domino effect of kindness unfolding into the futures they’re building. I can only imagine the lives they’ve touched with this good spirit of helpfulness, an ember that warms strangers and friends alike with its inclusiveness and unassuming bent toward just making someone’s day a bit better.

All of these feelings and realizations came to me Saturday afternoon as I bent over to pick up the next tree fingerbone scattered by a fierce wind’s hand. The land gives constantly. My sister and her generous family give and it’s impossible not to be changed by it, inspired to pay for the next person’s latte at the drive-thru or give a coworker my undivided attention and not hijack their story with one of my own. For the better part of a weekend morning, I was wrapped in this most tender of gifts, a lesson worth repeating day after day after day.

When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll be looking for a chance to do the same.

May the circle be unbroken indeed.