The Tree Rings of Our Lives
What is the story you hold?
It was a Field Trip Friday last October, and we were in the Franklin, TN, area visiting Civil War landmarks. As fascinating as the history was to me, the hot, late-morning sun was quickly draining the excitement my kids had felt earlier that morning.
Before heading toward our car, we stopped to walk through the garden next to the home we had been learning about. That’s when we saw her—one of the largest, most beautiful trees I’ve ever seen. She was stunning and held an air about her that was not easy to articulate. We approached her in awe.
My son, who has always lived with a beautiful wonder and sacred reverence for nature, walked up, placed his hand on the tree and whispered,
“Imagine the stories this tree would tell us if it could talk.”
Oh, sweet boy—her stories would be powerful.
For this tree is rooted in a field that bore witness to one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War.
I imagine this tree would tell stories that would fill hundreds of books.
I imagine they would be full of resilience and pain.
I imagine they would hold both bravery and horror.
I imagine they would be filled with death and life.
I imagine they would tell of weary souls seeking shade and playful lunchtime picnics.
I imagine they would speak of wounded soldiers beneath her branches, heaving their last breaths.
I imagine they would remember the enslaved people on the property who carved their dreams of freedom into its bark.
I imagine they would behold everyday life lived in a land that feels drastically different, yet eerily similar, to our own.
Oh, this tree has her stories, and they will forever be heard.
The National Park Service shares these powerful words about the stories trees hold:
Looking at the patterns in a tree core is much like reading a history book about a certain time period. The width, color, and pattern of tree rings can tell us whether the tree was thriving or struggling. An especially wet year might result in broader rings, since the tree is able to grow more than it could have in a drier year. A blackened scar can indicate a wildfire, and other marks could point to an insect infestation. Our memories are stored within our bodies, and in the same vein, the memories of the land are stored within the trees.
I wish I could take a peek inside every tree, especially the one we found that day, and bear witness to the stories it holds. I do believe I’ll look a little closer, though, the next time I see a stump, wondering what life the rings have seen.
Much like the trees around us, our own human bodies hold the stories of the journeys we have taken on this earth. The stories we carry are told mostly without words—in the way our nervous system becomes heightened, in the slump of our shoulders, in the scars from childbirth, in the movement of our eyes, in the feeling we get in the pit of our stomachs. They all point to the road we have traveled—the joys, pains, heartaches, and celebrations.
We are the Imago Dei—made in the image of our creator—every single one of us. Our stories, however pain-filled or joyful they may be, bear witness to the brokenness of our world and point to the hope of Jesus. This Hope doesn’t minimize loss or evil, but reminds us there is a grander story, outside of the rings of our life, that is being woven together in a beautiful forest of stories.
What story are you telling today?
What pain do your eyes hold?
What is the untold feeling beneath that deep sigh?
Where does the laughter point to?
What is your heart drawing you toward?
What are the tears trying to tell you?
May you remember today that the Trinity is closer than you think in the midst of both joy and sorrow.
May you be held in the knowledge that They are holding you in the Light.
May you be invited into a deeper love and reverence for the story within you and within those around you.
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