I've Been Watching Trees
and they've been testifying to the name of the Lord.
My husband and I sat on the couch, both of us with a laptop warming our legs, when our five-year-old son emerged from his quiet time and asked to go outside. He was already gathering his gear—coat, socks, shoes, and hat—before I even had a chance to answer, “Go for it, dude.”
“What are you gonna do out there?” my husband asked as I pulled a hat over our son’s ears.
He ran over to the back door.
“I’m gonna sit outside and watch trees.”
My husband and I smiled at each other. How did this beautiful creation somehow come from our bodies? He’s such a cool kid. I thought to myself as he closed the door behind him, sat on the porch steps, and looked up at the trees.
I could learn a thing or two from him.
//
Pulling my knee to my chest, I shifted my eyes from my laptop to the old window in front of me. Condensation on the frame bore the evidence of the cold on the other side. As if I needed any.
The book I’m writing is the hardest thing I’ve ever written. My brain feels frozen like the ice-covered branches on the tree in my front yard. I’m unsure, yet again, of how to move forward—how to say with clarity and nuance what I need to say.
I think of my reader, her tears like thick ice, frozen in time. I want my words to help thaw them, not to cause her pain, but to free her to grieve. To show her she can weep and has a Savior who weeps with her.
I glance at the tree again and back down at my keyboard. I write some more.
//
The forecast had called for high winds and the weatherman was right. I ran outside to capture the plastic tunnel that had been ripped off of my plants and was now flailing in the wind gushes. As I fumbled with the lock on our shed, the wind swirled throughout the tall pine tree towering above me.
If it had cracked and fallen over, it might have landed on me, for I was overtaken with my smallness—my feet glued to the concrete beneath me. I was fearfully captivated, frozen in awe. Who is this God that sends gusts that knock the wind right out of you? Who is this God that shakes the great trees?
//
It’s only early March but if you were the spider in the corner of my ceiling you’d spy out my desperation. Every day, I stand in front of my dining room window and look intently for green among the faded black mulch. I planted tulips for the first time last fall for their early emergence. I knew desperate-for-Spring-Brittany would thank tired-of-gardening-Fall-Brittany for her diligence.
I haven’t seen a single pointed tulip leaf poking through just yet, but across the street small red buds are forming on the maple tree. The sunlight shines a spotlight on them as if to say “Soon, my friend. Very soon.”
//
Sometimes, in the warmer months, I sit on our back porch to pray and end up staring at my neighbor’s oak tree. As it stretches its curvy branches toward the sky, I’m often struck by the beauty of bright green leaves against the blue. I linger there a while, eventually shifting my eyes to the puffy white clouds strolling by. I wonder what it will be like to see Jesus coming in the clouds to take me home. I imagine his presence will warm my skin like the sun does on that first pleasant day after a long and frigid winter.
Today as I watch that same tree, there is only brown, only gray. But soon, the sun will shine through again and the birds will nestle their nests in the branches. New life will begin. Likewise, one day, the Lord will split the sky when the trumpet sounds. Maybe the wind will swirl the trees round and round in worship.
For now, we wait and we watch, and sometimes we weep. We look to the sky. We gaze at the trees that testify to God’s existence and praise his name. And we watch them change. We let their transitions from dormancy to budburst teach us how Jesus said, “Behold, I am coming soon.” (Rev. 22:12).
ICYMI
The Magpie
Don’t Scratch the Itch
According to Statistics I Should Be Dead
I Shared My Story of Spiritual Abuse
We are Dewdrops
The Miscarriage Years
PREORDER Lost Gifts: Miscarriage, Grief, and the God of all Comfort here.