We no longer felt safe in our own yards.
A few months ago, gale-force winds ravaged our region. Falling trees downed power lines, blocked roads, smashed into homes.
After the storm tens of thousands coped without power for days, in freezing weather. Tree limbs newly weighted with snow continued to snap.
Without realizing it, I’d counted on our trees to stand firm, never questioned my unspoken faith in them.
We lost several trees. Our fifty-foot Douglas Fir fell northward, but it missed the garage.
For weeks its dead weight pressed against other, smaller trees.
Would they recover? Or were they already maimed for life?
An early thaw exposed roots shockingly meager for an evergreen this size, a joke of a rootball. No wonder the tree toppled.
Viewing the damage, I wondered: Am I sufficiently rooted in my faith to withstand potential upheaval?
(Or, metaphorically speaking): Is this dubious root system a self-portrait?
Three months later
Today the work crew arrives. Young and seemingly fearless, their courage has likely developed, over time, through shared experience plus faith—in their tools, their trade, and each other.
They start with a different tree, a Ponderosa pine still standing but past saving. One fellow shinnies up the trunk, and he lops off two-thirds of the limbs.
I do not see him heft the chainsaw above his head, but I hear the almighty crash. I look out the window and see the massive treetop covering our lawn.
How did he brace himself against all that force spreading down the trunk?
How much nerve plus skill plus faith ensured that the plummeting treetop cleared our roof?
And how would the roots of this tree compare to the pitiful root system of our Douglas Fir? (The pine stump remains, so I’ll never know.)
Another scenario
Rather than cutting the remaining two-thirds of the trunk into firewood, suppose the crew turns it into a telephone pole.
Utility workers would later bury one-third of its length in the ground (visually, the equivalent of the lopped treetop).
That hefty third would anchor the height with a far better percentage than our Doug Fir’s wannabe rootball. In its new life as a pole, the skinned pine would likely stand for another fifty years.
Maybe endurance is partly a matter of proportion.
Will efforts to better ground my life deepen my faith?
Better by far to be grounded deep in God’s faithfulness.
An enduring faith
Deeply embedded, this utility pole looms over fallen boughs. Standing tall, it keeps doing its work, the faithful bearer of power and light.
This will sound crazy, but: If I were a power pole, roughly twenty-two inches of me would be safely interred in the dirt. You’d see me from middish-thigh to the crown of my head. (Goodbye, leg-shaving razors and dancing shoes; hello, bedrock security.)
Unmoved by raging winds, I’d be anchored, grounded, and grateful: a glad bearer of God’s power and light.
Is that your desire? You may feel maimed, even stricken past the point of recovery.
No matter what’s shaking your hope, or uprooting your peace, take heart. The apostle Paul’s advice stands, even today:
“. . . continue to live in [Christ],
rooted and built up in him,
strengthened in the faith as you were taught,
and overflowing in thankfulness.”
—Col. 2:6-7 NIV
MAKING IT PERSONAL:
If you were a tree, what form would you take? Why?
I love reading your posts, Laurie. All of them. God uses your words like a super-long tree branch (from a tree with deep roots; I declare this with confidence) to reach across the land and ground itself in my heart. The reason? To impart rich Spirit-inspired truths and sometimes a sweet giggle into my heart and pondering mind. Thank you! By the way, I’m with Jody; your quirky inserts are creatively cool.
Carol, thanks for your vote of confidence in my personal rootball! 🙂 May it be so. And of course I’m glad to know the quirky bits entertain you. Where would we be without the occasional cheeky grin? May this spring and the Spirit generate vibrant growth in you, and your work, Carol!
There is so much in this post that resonates, Laurie. We have many trees around us and in our greenbelt and the yard–they all provide shade, beauty and sound when the wind comes rushing through. I so enjoy the power and presence of our trees.
There are indeed many perfect Kingdom analogies in their growth and shaping.
The quirky way you view things makes the lessons sweeter–especially the not having to shave your legs part…
What kind of tree would I be? A jacquemontii birch. Nothing more beautiful.
Of course I Googled first for an image of this specific birch. What a marvel of a tree! I believe I have seen one, though only one. Do you have these nearby, or in your yard?
This phrase makes me want to write a poem: “the power and presence of our trees.” Sounds to me like your yard glows and breathes out fragrance like an acre of Eden. A sanctuary for birds, I’ll bet, and other happy living beings.
Thank you for letting me know my quirky take on things is working. 🙂 Sometimes I wonder!
My awareness of trees is so much greater since the storm. I am wondering why some weathered the storm considering its intensity. But grateful for the health and stamina we can have when we do hang onto Jesus and He hangs onto us. No hurricane can unroot us from His hand.
Gena, it does seem mysterious. I’d never realized how shallow the root systems are for those lofty Douglas Firs. You zero in on the heart of our hope when you write about how faithfully he hangs onto us. Thank heaven!
Delicious food for thought. I suppose the form I would like to take is that of my beautiful handmade rocker of sinewy bent vines and ergonomically steam-formed hickory slats…. A comfortable place that could gently rock and console the heartbroken, be a perch for imagination before it is rocketed into action, and a place to go deep in conversation. What is a rocker but a tree cut into pieces and parts, to fulfill the maker’s dream? I am willing to lay my life down for others on the forest floor, fragrant with pine sap and the black mushroom pungency of snow-watered humus. I
imagine the nuthatches going silent as I fall from my lofty place, but slowly over the days, moving back in, exchanging whispered trills as they explore my rugged bark for familiar cachements of seed and grace. Where their feet touch down so lightly, it feels like a kiss. The din of the maker’s saws and chisels will be terrifying, otherworldly, I imagine, but the hope of my new life, as a beloved chair, a vessel for living souls, could cradle me to the core, give me a new meaning, new purpose. My chair is signed on the bottom, John W.Otto, 2007. His hand-writing, I recognize; it look’s like my brother’s. a good man, a craftsman. I love the way he sanded and varnished even the bottom of the chair, the two toned, unpeeled vines, and the places where the twigs were cut away. The tree still lives, pleasing to the eye, not forgotten, useful, filled with grace. Yes, that’s what I’d like to be. (Or… maybe, humus… That’s useful too.) 😉😘
Pacia, your reply stirs my imagination! It appeals to all my senses as well as the sense of story. In fact, what you’ve written here feels like a poem or essay in the making . . . and/or a picture book . . .
I love the different similes for the rocker, especially imagination rocketing into creative action. 🙂 I look forward to seeing this marvelous chair, from the hidden signature to the steam-formed slats.
Well, your question inspired me… I planned to write a two-line reply, but the words kept coming, unprompted. Thank you!
To which I say, Hurray!—an added gift to those who read the comments. 🙂
Beautifully written reflection, Laurie. I laughed out loud at this: “You’d see me from middish-thigh to the crown of my head. (Goodbye, leg-shaving razors and dancing shoes; hello, bedrock security.)” and then paused for thought at the deeper truth embedded in your words. Am I as rooted as I need to be? Is my faith rock-solid, secure through every storm? So often I feel as spindly as a sapling swaying precariously in the slightest breeze. Life seems to lurch me sideways and I need to cling hard to the anchor of my soul or risk being uprooted.
There are days when I resemble a weeping willow, drooped with weariness, bowed low to ground. My goal as a tree? To become solid as oak, spreading out with fruitfulness, immoveable, firm and flourishing in the courts of the Lord, even as leaves turn golden. Age shall not wither me. There is life and strength to be had as we stay rooted to the Vine. And He provides all the stability our fearful souls need.
Joy, such a beautiful response (even the laughter!). I sure relate to the weeping willow. And your heart’s goal. Is it Jeremiah 1 that reads: Blessed is the [one] who trusts in the Lord, for she shall be like a tree, planted by the water, and that spreads out her roots by the river; she shall not see when the heat comes but her leaf shall be green. Or golden! Both are lovely. Lively. Yes, prayers for us both to stand strong.