You know that classic Primary song “Popcorn Popping”? It goes like this:
I looked out the window and what did I see?
Popcorn popping on the apricot tree!
Spring has brought me such a nice surprise,
Blossoms popping right before my eyes.
Only if you live in a place where they don’t grow apricot trees, you might say the popcorn grows on some other kind of tree–a dogwood tree, for example. I believe that when I was living and serving in a Primary in Virginia, the kids might have sung about popcorn on the dogwood tree. I don’t remember for sure, but that’s neither here nor there.
The point is that if you don’t have a particular kind of tree in your neck of the woods (haha–get it? woods?), you are free to substitute some other kind of tree that sprouts popcorn-esque blossoms in the spring. No one’s testimony is at stake, nor our theological integrity.
It just occurs to me that I have no idea whether or not apricot trees grow in my neck of the woods, or any of the woods I’ve ever lived in. Where do they grow apricot trees? I couldn’t tell you. It also occurs to me that as a child I never once looked out the window and thought I saw popcorn popping on a tree, apricot or otherwise; nor has my bonny ever lay over the ocean; nor, for that matter, have I ever met a girl (or boy) from Ipanema–which brings me to my actual point, which is this:
Isn’t it just a damn song?
A damn fine song, I mean, regardless of what kind of tree you use. (I happen to find “apricot” a little more lyrical than “dogwood,” but that’s just me. You dogwood-lovers have your own reasons for doing things.)
I’m only thinking of this because I dropped my daughter off at Activity Days and noticed that there were popcorn-like blossoms sprouting out of the trees in front of the church. And that’s when it hit me: I had no bleeping idea what kind of trees those were. If I were to venture a guess, I would probably be laughably, hysterically wrong. I don’t know the names of any of the trees around these parts, even the ones growing in my own backyard. I do know that Oregon has an abundance of trees called “evergreen” or “pine,” but that kind doesn’t grow any blossoms, or certainly none that the unworldly tot could mistaken for a wholesome snack.
And guess what else? I don’t care.
Your assignment: Discuss the possible spiritual applications of this otherwise-pointless anecdote, suitable for a sacrament meeting talk or youth fireside address. Author of the best analogy wins a popcorn ball that will smell so sweet.