I passed a beautiful tree this evening. It was a glory of gold, lovely in shape with a perfectly positioned lower branch just beckoning the tree climber in me.
I stopped to snap a picture, not exactly because it was stunning, but because I realized it likely won’t be standing in the near future. It remains at its post, unaware that in all probability, it’s going to be sacrificed on the altar of progress. A new road is slated to be built, and unless this treasure miraculously escapes, it will only be a memory soon.
What is it about trees?
I very nearly cried when I found out the great Sycamore next to Hadrian’s Wall in England had been ruthlessly hacked down last year. I’d only ever seen it in books and movies, but I was looking forward to a visit in person someday. It saddened me deeply to hear of it’s demise.
As I’ve pondered over how the destruction of a tree could bring me to tears…it’s just a tree, after all….I have realized it’s more about what the tree represents. Each one is so unique. No two are identical. Not truly. Even the most manicured will have subtle variations. They are planted, either by hands, or by nature, and then they grow. Along the way, they are shaped and molded by their environment.
I’ve seen windswept Hawthorns along coastal shores that tell of hurricanes and ship-wrecker storms, of constant winds blown in by relentless seas. They are bent inland, bowed in a permanent testimony to the winds they have endured and survived.
I’ve seen a magnificent Banyan sprawling across a vast circumference, a tangle of branches casting down roots to further enlarge its territory. Imposing in it’s size, it’s story is of strength and roots, of knowing where it belongs and flourishing there.
I’ve seen skinny, pokey trees in the woods behind my home, looking spindly and malnourished because they’ve never had the space to spread the way they’re supposed to, or enough sunshine to thrive.
The willow in my yard whispers to me of flexibility as the winds rustle through its narrow leaves. Long supple branches bend with the breeze, created to be pliable and showing off a winsome beauty as a result.
Even the gnarly, half-there trees are something to see.
Missing limbs, lopsided and ugly by tree standards, these tell the tale of lightening strikes and fires, storms and neglect.
But their sad stories still speak of survival and hope.
Maybe the secret of trees is that their stories sometimes mirror our own.
They wear scars.
They weather the seasons.
Sunny days and stormy nights all leave their mark.
I feel a camaraderie with these soulless creations. Trees remind me and teach me so many lessons:
The importance of deep roots.
The serenity found when leaning into the hard.
The benefits of soaking up the Son.
The beautiful ache of embracing the seasons.
So I suppose the lesson from the Sycamore…and my lovely little friend at the end of my curvy, country road…is that inevitably, our time here will end. Maybe my story, the shape of my life, the scars I wear or the fruit I bear will be the thing that makes someone pause and reflect on their own story.
My hope and prayer is that in the end, like the stories told in the rings of the trees, that Jesus will be seen in every ring of my life.
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Longing & Belonging 
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