“I cannot tell a lie…I did cut it with my hatchet.”

So the story goes a young George Washington told his father when asked if it was he who fell his father’s beloved cherry tree. And while referred to as the “cherry myth,” it is a story that is used as a teaching tool of how and why honesty is the best policy.

And it is.

But what about when it isn’t?

“What about my shoes? Don’t I need them?” asked my uncle for the 10th time in as many minutes.

“Don’t worry about them,” I say in response as I said each time he asked before. “I have them in my bag and you don’t need them right now anyway.”

It’s true he doesn’t need them but it’s not true that I have them in my bag — because he was rushed to the emergency room in his pajamas only and wasn’t wearing shoes. And he may never have a need to walk in shoes again if I had to be really honest.

“But what about my shoes?” he asks again. “Won’t I need them?”

“Don’t worry about your shoes,” I repeat. “I have them in my bag and will bring them with me.”

“Oh ok,” he answers. “Then I won’t worry about them.”

But I worry. Not about his shoes of course, but about the incident that brought him to the hospital. About what lies ahead for him and for my aunt, his wife of 60+ years who has never spent a night away from him. I worry if I am doing the right thing telling him his shoes are in my bag. I’m not being honest. I am telling a lie.

“What about my shoes,” I hear again. “Won’t I need them to go outside?”

“No,” I gently tell him. “You are going to be moved in a rolling bed so you don’t need your shoes. And if you do, I have them in my bag.”

“Oh okay,” he says, “that makes sense.”

And I want to scream that no, no it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense that my uncle, my Captain Macho, doesn’t know that he is in a hospital, that he is so sick, that he didn’t come in with shoes — that I am outright, full-on, no-holds-barred lying to his face right now to keep him from getting upset.

That he is dying and I am lying to him that I have everything under control and he has nothing to worry about.

That every time I smile at him and tell him his shoes are in my bag it feels like a hatchet is taking a notch out of my heart.

The tree of life. If we are lucky, we get to dig our roots in deep and start growing tall, spreading our branches out with every experience that comes our way. We reach for the sun, wanting to thrive and soak in all we can.

Yet life being life, as strong as we are, lightening inevitably strikes and a branch gets damaged and weakened; a strong storm or two — or three or four — comes along and we find ourselves fighting against the fierce blowing winds, doing all we can to stay upright.

But in the worst of times, there’s always that forest of trees we hopefully have around us that we can hide behind, that we can lean on with the forces are trying to knock us down. Yet another reason to keep your roots healthy and make sure they are spread far and deep.

I hear it again: “What about my shoes?”

The storm of storms has come for my uncle. I cannot tell a lie.

But I will when I yet again respond: “Don’t worry about your shoes. I have them.”

The hatchet chops at my heart again.

So I take a deep breath, smile, and tell him the biggest truth of all: “And I love you very very much Captain.”

I cannot tell a lie.