The fact that they never gave up, the fact that they kept pushing forward, and the fact that their three children, two sons and a daughter, now raced under the branches of the trees, were proof that one could find a way out of the darkness and into joy.
Her husband grinned down at her, then strode toward the trees and encouraged their youngest, who was lingering on the ground. “Climb, Agatha! Climb!”
Without another word, Agatha squared her small shoulders, hitched up her soft yellow gown, pitched off her slippers, and took off toward the trunk of the tree.
She grabbed hold of the bark and, using her bare feet, climbed up after her brothers, bouncing higher and ever higher, until at last she was at the very tip of the tree.
She let out a laugh of triumph. “Mama, Papa, have you ever climbed so high?”
Her brothers, who were happily sitting on various limbs, laughed.
Thomas, the eldest, said, “Never! Of course not. They are far too serious.”
But John, the middle child, cocked his dark head and gazed down at his mother with mischievous eyes. “Mama is not too serious. I know that she could climb any tree she chose.”
She beamed at John, who knew her so well.
She was proud of her wild, brave children who had learned to be free.
And who would never suffer as her husband had.
With that, she closed the distance between her hand and his, took his hand in hers, and wove their fingers together.
As he watched their children play, he whispered, “I’m so glad you have always been a climber of trees.”
“As am I,” she replied, her heart so full of love. “As am I.”