How to be a Tree

The world around us is a great teacher. Nature, in all its mute complexity, expresses such vibrant wisdom and emotion. The Bible says that creation groans (Romans 8:22), the mountains and hills burst into song and the trees of the field applaud the Lord (Isaiah 55:12). Besides this, “the heavens tell the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims his handiwork. Day to day pours forth speech, and night to night declares knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard; yet their voice goes out through all the earth.” (Psalm 19:1-4)

Since I was two years old, I have lived as close to nature as it is possible to do without growing up in a tent. I have miles of forest for my backyard. On one side, a stream makes its way through a grassy, forested hillside filled with wildflowers, while on the other a meadow stretches outward giving a stunning view of a mountain which reaches 13,000 feet above sea level. During the day, if I look out my window, I might see a bear stopping to scratch his back on a tree or eat some ants out of a decaying stump. I might chase half a dozen deer away from the flower garden, or pause to watch a flock of turkeys bob through the tall grass. At nighttime, the stars are so bright and numerous that you feel the insignificance of your little life, and the world is so quiet that you could feel like the only living being besides the crickets. I have learned to love nature, and at times I have been so far away from the bustle of the world that I’ve had no choice but to listen to its inaudible voice and learn from it because no other teachers were available to me.

Today, as my mom and I followed a quiet and deserted trail through the forest, eating wild raspberries, hopping streams, and admiring the foliage, I started to turn my thoughts towards the trees around me. As fall slowly closes in on the mountains, the trees dutifully begin to change. There has hardly been a whisper of fall, but the tips of the leaves have begun to glow ever so delicately with yellow, and blush ever so sweetly with red. Their work of the spring and summer is over, and they seem to nearly be bursting with excitement at the thought of the winter’s rest ahead of them.

As I admired their beauty, I had a curious thought. What does a tree work for? When an acorn, fallen to the ground, finds lodging in the soil and becomes an oak tree, and this oak tree grows, produces leaves, lets them drop in the fall, only to grow the leaves back and busily produce more acorns, what is it hoping to achieve? You could say that its purpose is to feed the squirrels and the bears, to put more oxygen into the air, to provide shade for weary travelers, and to keep the soil from eroding, but these are just uses that other beings put the tree to, or effects of their existence. I doubt that the tree works all year just to feed the squirrels. Rather, I think the goal of a tree is to simply be a tree. It works all year, sheds its leaves, and produces acorns so that, when the last of the snow melts, it can continue to be a tree and maybe in the process create more trees which will grow up and be trees. It is the same, I pondered, with other things in nature. The squirrel works to collect acorns and store up enough food for the winter so that it can continue being a squirrel. The bear eats enough berries and nuts so that she may remain a bear, and protects her young so that they may remain bears as well. It seems at first glance to be a hollow and purposeless object, but then I think, isn’t it enough just to be? Isn’t simply being a tree a great and glorious thing and something worth striving for if, indeed, you are a tree?

Trees are so good at treeing and squirrels are remarkably adept at squirreling, but humans, I think, are so caught up with feeding the squirrels with their acorns, and keeping the soil intact, and filling the world with oxygen, that we have lost our skill at humaning. As humans, the Bible says we are made in the image of God. Being a human, then, has unimaginable dignity and glory. We have the honor to bear his image and proclaim his glory to all of creation, simply by being human. I think that we are far too concerned with producing fruit, and our work becomes toil because of it. But I think that when we turn our attention to reflecting God in a way that only the human, in the image of God, can, the squirrels will get fed, the soil will stay intact, and the air will be crisp, clean, and filled with oxygen  without our meaning to do so. If we are humaning well, of course we will produce fruit, and our fruit will identify us as humans and image bearers, but the fruit isn’t the end goal. The end goal, I think, is to be human, to reflect the glory of God, and to lovingly and devotedly bear His image. If we keep our eyes on Christ, our prize and our perfect human example, the rest will fall into place.

Earl Grey in the Morning

...and perhaps in the evening too,
   in the hours before bed
A reminder to the throbbing dullness
   of growing things plucked
   and dried in the sun
Grey, you hover between extremes
   one foot in darkness, the other
   in light, more profoundly
Yet you hover, parched, I drink you in.

Grey, so intimately mine,
   only I can see you, so quiet
   you disguise yourself in heat and sugar
Sometimes I banish you
   you make my throat burn and eyes throb
   and take with you my strength
Grey, you never left I know
   and you remind me where I fall
   violent dry motions of tears
You hover, livid, I drink you in.

Grey, you make my heart pound
   and die in a mimic of life
   you fake this blooming
What good, oh Grey, in hoping
   in the solitary morning
   that I'll give up faithful sipping
Grey, you know I need you
   in the cold and loveless evening
   you hope I'll end my dreaming
But I don't mind a cup of Grey in the morning
  and in the evening before bed.

Dementors

“Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch-black and lightless—the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant grumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them...a towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly toward him, hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it came…There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter…He could smell the dementor’s putrid, death-cold breath, filling his own lungs, drowning him—Think…something happy…But there was no happiness in him…”[1]

Ever since that first day in September 2001 when I cracked open the Sorcerer’s Stone for the first time in a muggy tent in Winfield, Kansas, I have loved J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. I felt almost as if I grew up with the scrawny green-eyed youth. During my childhood, I appreciated the stories for their entertainment value. They made me laugh, and cry, and sit on the edge of my seat. But I’ve come to love the story even more as I’ve grown older because Rowling didn’t simply write a story, she expressed a deep humanity which not many other stories capture. Her books are full of redemptive moments, hope, pain, and human growth, as well as truths about the brokenness and sadness of our world. It is clear to me that this story was imagined out of real experience with life and its heartache, and parts of it are meant to touch the hearts of Rowling’s readers.

I experience such a moment a few days ago. I had awoken in the early hours of the morning, and the heat was such in my room that I could not fall back asleep. I found myself tossing and turning, finding no position which was remotely comfortable. Unable to drop back off into sweet slumber, my mind naturally turned to contemplating the day. It was early Sunday morning, and I started thinking of church and how I had experienced a small, but still uncomfortable, moment of panic the last time I had been there. My mind, in its tired and delirious state, could not form rational and coherent thoughts and I began to picture scenarios in my head that I had no right, as the cared-for daughter of a King, to be imagining. I began to construct images for what "could happen" later that day in church that were the height of terrifying, and before I knew it, I had thrown myself once again into panic.

The panic was different this time. It wasn’t the heart-pounding, gasping, breathless sort of panic. It was quiet, subdued, but deeply rooted like cancer. Every nerve in my body was on fire, every muscle tensed, and every thought that passed through my mind was torment. I had almost thoroughly convinced myself that I must being dying by the time, a couple hours later, I finally realized that it was no use staying in my bed (it seemed a thoroughly boring place to die), and I got up and turned on the light. As it illuminated my bedroom, it also shone on the many pictures that I keep around my room of loved ones. Seeing their smiling faces should have brought some sort of joy and hope into my heart, but my reaction was exactly the opposite. My already trembling heart fell into despair and I nearly crumpled to my knees with the sensation. “I’ll never be happy again, and it’s impossible for me to ever have joyful moments like these again. Everything that has ever been good in my life is over.” The feeling of hopelessness was so complete that it left no room for reason.

Out of some miracle, I decided to walk around my yard a few times to try to calm my spirit down. As I did, a sudden word rather bizarrely came to mind: dementors. I remembered the hooded figures from Rowlings books and how she describes their affects on her characters—like they would never be cheerful again. I suddenly had a vivid image of what my anxiety and depression is to me, which personified it in a way that made sense of it and almost made it understandable. That feeling of despair didn’t immediately go away, but at that moment, it was diminished into something graspable. I thought in that moment, "J.K. Rowling knows something of anxiety and depression or she couldn't have written such a thing."

My hunch was confirmed later when I typed “dementors and depression” into my trusty friend Google. It turns out that dementors were indeed inspired by Rowling’s struggle with deep depression and perhaps she too found that reducing it to dark hooded figures helped to put the sensation in its place. Not only that, but Rowling seems to have discovered something in her life bright enough to provide a strong barrier between her and the soul-sucking hooded figure. As I write this, I find that I am so far from discovering the answers. The simple Sunday School reply “God is the answer”, though entirely true, doesn’t do much for me. It isn’t the sort of answer that hits deeply enough to calm the soul when it is in the midst of deepest turmoil. But it is enough to know, for now, that there is hope.

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[1] Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. New York: Scholastic, 2003, pg. 16-18.

Afraid of the Dark

I’ve always been afraid of the dark. It isn’t the monster under the bed type of fear, or a dread of darkness itself, but it is a deep awe, respect, and loathing for those nighttime hours which stretch on forever. It is a dread of the type of loneliness which can only come when those you love are so close, yet you must tread lightly outside their door lest you wake them. They are close and unattainable and to wake them means to admit a grand weakness, and to voice that you are not okay. Our brokenness is so much more palatable to us when it goes unspoken.

Ever since I can remember, it was the fear of the nighttime which kept me from falling asleep. I dread being awake during those hours so much that I bring my own wakefulness. To sleep is to be free from fear, but to be awake when you are supposed to be asleep-- this brings the most acute fear of all. And in those hours right before dawn, the world is capable of shrinking until the happy photographs on your walls mock you with what will never be again because how could happiness exist in such a night?

It is a childish fear that I still nurse. It’s the fear that brought the little girl timidly down the stairs to seek the comfort of a mother’s arms in those hours before she also went to bed, or the paralyzing fear that kept me shaking alone beneath the covers in the deepest and loneliest part of night when I felt too old to knock on my parents’ bedroom door.

But what have I feared all of this time? Was it illness as I thought for so many years? I no longer think so. The fear of illness was but a symptom of a deeper fear which, even after the biggest part of my battle with emetophobia is over, still courses through my body and seeps ruthlessly into everything I do. It is the fear of being weak, unacceptable, an irritation, a burden, an unwanted and disgusting human being, and an obstruction to another person’s life. In other words, I didn’t fear being sick, I fear waking someone in the middle of the night to something unpleasant that I am the cause of. I fear interrupting a choir concert by passing out on the risers and causing a scene. I fear being that one person on the tour bus who catches the stomach bug first, and gives it to everyone else. I dread being the bridesmaid who passes out while the happy couple attempts to read their vows. And above all, I fear others’ disgust, and the moment when they withdraw from you and tell you to stay away because “you are sick and I don’t want to catch it.”

I make myself entirely responsible for the good days of everyone around me. I assume, perhaps in arrogance, that I am capable of making or breaking a moment. I hold myself accountable for everyone’s reactions, and any negative reaction is my fault. It’s not about getting sick. If I were alone in a house, I wouldn’t fear illness as I do, though I wouldn’t enjoy it either. But it is my one desire in life to make everyone around me comfortable, and to me, any discomfort that I cause another human being, even if it is involuntary or unavoidable, is entirely unacceptable.

How freeing it would be to finally embrace that I am responsible for my good day alone, and my reactions alone. It is my job as a servant of Christ to love those around me, to react to their weaknesses in compassion as Christ would, and to portray his grace, mercy, and love to a world that is broken and suffers just as I do. It is not my responsibility to control their reactions or to present them with a good day. It is the Lord who makes the day, and he always makes it good. It is our choice to see it that way.

I know there is something noble in my desire to create peace, joy, and comfort everywhere I go. I believe this is a precious gift that I have been given, and which I am to cultivate. But part of cultivating a gift is learning which parts of this gift you have twisted, and letting them unravel so that you can also live in the midst of God’s freedom and peace and not become exhausted by the outpouring of a gift which robs you of your peace of mind.

"On my bed I remember you, I think of you through the watches of the night. Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings. My soul clings to you, your right hand upholds me." -Psalm 63:6-8

The Day I Met Terror

The lights glared warmly as they had done many times before in my memory, heating the room as effectively as a furnace, and lighting up the many glistening foreheads which suffered in their heat. Black predominated—around me I could see nothing else. There was black behind me, black to the sides, black in that gaping expanse in front of me, and black in those eyes which were before me and which seemed to gaze only at me. Yes, it was all black, save for those blinding, insufferable lights. I wondered how such blackness could coincide with such light.

I had been here before so many times I couldn’t even begin to count them. There was nothing in those faces which now stared back at me that I had not seen before.  They should have been familiar, comforting, and even exciting, it being the last choir tour performance of my senior year. Indeed, as I looked to my right and left I saw what should have been in my own face. My friends and comrades stood on all sides of me, their faces beaming at the applause, and their minds focused on the music which they held confidently in front of them. These expressions of excitement were mingled with a united visage of concentration as our likewise beaming leader raised his baton and signaled the silence of the room.

How can I remember what we sang? My thoughts had turned inward and I was made aware of an internal battle which was not reflected in the beauty of the piece that we sang. A feeling in my chest had blossomed, although it was not entirely unfamiliar. I had stood many times in front of a crowd of people with this sensation sweeping through my thoughts. It was the fear of entrapment in a place where escape would be humiliating, and it often expressed itself through feelings of nausea which always exacerbated my fear. However, I had mastered this fear, and I had thought I knew the fear by name. I thought I could put her in her place as I had done many times before. Relaxing, I began to sway back in forth to the music knowing that if only I could express with my body that all was well, my mind would believe it as it had done before. Fear didn’t stop there, however. For the first time, the Fear overstepped her boundary of the mind and crept into the rest of my body. At first it was only a slight weakness of the knee and a tremble of the finger. But soon, as I swayed hopefully back and forth and put on a smile which I hoped shone with authenticity, I found my legs trembling as they never had before in my life. By the third song my whole body quaked, and by the sixth I knew that I must sit or I would collapse in humiliation upon the riser.

Spying a chair which sat empty on the stage slightly to my left, I lightly dropped my shaking limbs off the riser and into the chair, trying my best to do so without attracting attention. I could see a few concerned faces in the small section of audience which was visible to me, so I opened up my folder, smiled, and swayed along with the music. I wanted the audience members to assume that this was all a part of the plan and that it wasn’t a weakness of mind which had brought me off of the risers.  

My resolution to be a part of my choir brought me back off of my chair after only one song. I regretted the action the instant I retook my place. The shaking had not abated as I had hoped, but had ripened and settled deep into my bones. It was all I could do to keep a smile on my face as I looked towards the sea of black in front of me which had become, in the space of an hour, my own personal hell. Never had the minutes dragged so much as they did then. The notes in front of me seemed to lift off of the page only to sludge in slow motion through the air in front of my eyes. Our conductor’s baton seemed also to slow, and it followed a belabored path through the air like it was being pulled through taffy.  

When the music finally quieted, and the organized order of notes was replaced with the chaotic applause of the black-clad audience, I felt the last vestiges of strength leave my body. As I pulled myself with effort onto the bus, such laughter and joy and youth surrounded me as to make my defeated mind feel three times its age. Their words mocked me. It was the best we had ever sung! The best venue! The best audience! The most fun! The most honoring to the Lord! Where, I wondered, was the worship in trembling, or the glory to the Lord in not being able to stand before him?

On this night, I shook hands with fear twice. Once, as I stepped unknowingly upon that stage and met her as I never had before—a powerful physical force which could take an idea and make it rage through my body. And twice as I stepped off the stage and into a world which, for the next several months, would be filled with stages identical to this one with Fear’s constant presence waiting to escort me there each time. On this night, I met fear regenerated. Terror was her name, and she was stronger than I was.