Before-bed read

When Kathleen Gerard stopped to take a picture of a vibrant maple tree, she never expected what the snapshot would come to mean…and how many hearts it would heal

One Saturday afternoon, tired of all the political news and discord, I disconnected from everything and everyone. I shut off the TV and computer, reached for my car keys and my camera and set off to escape the divisiveness of the world.

Some people escape by shopping or going for a run. Others bake or play piano or bridge. My go-to is photography. Framing things through a tiny viewfinder—intentionally seeking what is beautiful in this crazy world—has always managed to bring me peace.

That Saturday, I was enjoying a clear blue sky and the golden colors of fall in the Northeast. Just two blocks from my house, while cruising down a quiet street, I came upon a sight that I had to capture. There, in a slant of afternoon light, an old sugar maple was ablaze in color with that bluer than blue sky as a backdrop. There were even golden leaves arrayed all around it in the grass, and behind it were some contrasting evergreens and a white clapboard house with an idyllic, white picket fence. The sight took my breath away.

I hopped out of the car and started firing off pictures, hoping I was a capable enough photographer to do the scene justice.

I went straight home after that and downloaded the photos to my

computer. That sugar maple looked as stunning on screen as it did through the viewfinder. I knew it would make a striking photo greeting card—and it would be a perfect image to share for Thanksgiving. I also thought that whoever lived in the shade of that sugar maple might appreciate the picture.

Two weeks later, after the photo greeting cards were printed, notes were written and all the envelopes were addressed, sealed and ready to mail, I thought again of sending a card to the occupant of that sugar maple house. I didn’t know who lived there, yet I’d been driving and walking by that property for 50 years, from my early childhood.

I wasn’t sure if I should send a card to the occupants of that house. It seemed like an act of kindness, but would it somehow be misconstrued in this age of invasion of privacy? Would whoever lived at that address, after receiving my card, think that I had some ulterior motive or agenda? Would they think I was some sort of voyeur, casing their house like a stalker?

I vacillated. But then, on Thanksgiving morning—after I took stock of all the blessings in my life—I finally took the leap. I jotted a quick note inside one of the photo cards:

I live a few streets over in town and, one day when I was driving past your house this fall, your beautiful tree out front snagged my full attention. Something urged me to share a copy…Wishing you a bright and beautiful Thanksgiving!

On my way out to celebrate the day, I stopped at that white clapboard house and slipped the photo card inside the mailbox.

Unless I drove by that house, I didn’t give that card another thought…until six months later. In the spring, I received a response: Just a few days after we received your card with the photo of our sugar maple tree, my husband of 40 years passed away. Many years ago, the first fall we moved into this house, the leaves on that sugar maple looked spectacular— as spectacular as they appear on your card…I am in the process of making your photograph the centerpiece of a collage surrounded by photos of my husband and other cherished remembrances of our lives here together…Thank you for sharing the beautiful picture. I’ll treasure it always!

As I read that message, a shiver ran up my spine. I was never so glad to have followed my instinct. It was such a gift to know that my card held—and would continue to hold—special meaning and significance for the occupant of that sugar maple house… and maybe even more so for me.

—Kathleen Gerard

“As I read the message, a shiver ran up my spine. I was never so glad to have followed my instinct”