I have a confession to make—one that might raise an eyebrow or two in certain circles. I love children’s stories. While some might consider this indulgence in tales of whimsy and wonder a bit out of place for adulthood, for me, it feels like coming home. It’s a rediscovery of something fundamental, something pure and timeless that adulthood often obscures.
Image with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
Over the weeks, I’d like to share with you the values I’ve found in reading children’s books. They teach us how to be human. This revival in my love for children’s stories didn’t happen by chance. It began during a visit to St Andrews Museum a couple of years ago. I remember it vividly: the upper room of the museum transformed into a scene from Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. A long table was set for The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, complete with oversized teacups and mismatched plates. Quotes from beloved children’s books adorned the walls, snippets of joy and wisdom seemingly plucked straight from the pages of my childhood.
I lingered in that room far longer than I intended. It wasn’t just the nostalgia or the charm of the setting—it was the realization that these stories, once dismissed as childhood relics, still spoke to me. Their magic hadn’t dimmed. If anything, it burned brighter in the quiet space of adulthood, where imagination often takes a backseat to practicality.
When I returned home, something stirred. That visit had planted a seed, and it quickly grew into a desire to understand these stories more deeply. I enrolled in an Open University module on children’s literature (Children's literature (EA300), driven by a curiosity not only about the stories themselves but also about the adults who wrote them. Because here’s another secret I discovered along the way: there’s no such thing as children’s literature. Every book on the shelves of the children’s section was penned by an adult, written through the lens of experience, longing, and memory.
This realization only deepened my appreciation. Children’s stories are not just for children. They are for anyone who has ever been a child, who remembers what it feels like to see the world with fresh eyes and boundless wonder. They’re bridges between generations, carrying truths that are universal and timeless.
The Value of Reading The Giving Tree
“Were not all ten cleansed?” Jesus asked. “Where then are the other nine? “
Luke 17:17
Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree is a deceptively simple story. With its sparse prose and whimsical illustrations, it seems at first glance like a tale for very young children. Yet, beneath its surface lies a profound exploration of love, sacrifice, and the complexity of human relationships. Its enduring appeal lies in its ability to speak to readers of all ages, inviting them to reflect on the nature of giving and the gratitude—or lack thereof—that often accompanies it.
At its core, The Giving Tree is about a tree and a boy. The tree gives selflessly, offering its shade, fruit, branches, and even its trunk to the boy as he grows into a man, providing for his happiness at every stage of life. Over time, the boy takes more and more, until the tree is reduced to a stump. Yet, when the boy—now an old man—returns to sit and rest, the tree continues to give, finding joy in its role as a source of comfort.
A Lesson in Unconditional Love
The tree’s love for the boy is unconditional. It gives without expectation of receiving anything in return. This mirrors the kind of selfless love often seen in parental relationships, where sacrifices are made for a child’s well-being. However, the story also reveals the cost of such love. The tree becomes diminished through its giving, leaving readers to ponder the balance between selflessness and self-preservation.
The tree’s actions raise questions about healthy boundaries in relationships. Should love always mean giving everything, even to the point of depletion? Or should it involve teaching others to respect and reciprocate? These questions make the book particularly valuable for adult readers revisiting it, offering them a lens to reflect on their relationships, both as givers and receivers.
A Commentary on Gratitude
The boy’s journey through life highlights humanity’s often unbalanced relationship with nature and with those who nurture us. He takes the tree’s gifts with little acknowledgment or gratitude, a behaviour that reflects how we can sometimes overlook the sacrifices made by others. The tree, like many unsung givers, remains steadfast, finding fulfilment in its role, even when its efforts go unappreciated.
For younger readers, this dynamic offers a gentle reminder to recognize and value the people and things that sustain them. For adults, it may prompt an uncomfortable reckoning with past behaviours or inspire a renewed commitment to expressing gratitude.
What makes The Giving Tree so compelling is its ability to elicit different interpretations depending on the reader’s stage of life. For a child, it is a story about love and the joy of giving. For a teenager, it might reflect the growing pains of relationships and independence. For an adult, it may evoke nostalgia or guilt, reminding them of sacrifices made by parents, teachers, or mentors.
Reading The Giving Tree teaches us that love, while often selfless, flourishes when coupled with gratitude and respect. It challenges us to evaluate our relationships, asking if we are taking too much or failing to appreciate those who give to us which reminds us of Jesus, who healed the ten lepers, but only one returned to show gratitude. Which prompted the words, “Were not all ten cleansed?” Jesus asked. “Where then are the other nine? “
In a world that often prioritizes individualism and accumulation, The Giving Tree stands as a quiet counterpoint. It whispers to readers that life is most meaningful when it is shared—when we give not out of obligation, but out of love. By reading this timeless tale, we are invited to pause, reflect, and perhaps strive to be a little more like the tree: giving, yes, but also nurturing a culture of gratitude and mutual care.