Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash
The Bible is filled with imagery of trees. Cedar, chestnut, sycamore, olive, and of course, the cursed fig tree. All these trees have leaves, trunks, and roots. The Bible uses the roots of plants to reinforce the teaching of a firm foundation of faith. Through experience, I have found that the way a tree is raised can determine the strength of the tree. A few weeks ago, a strong storm blew through Tennessee with hurricane-force winds and plenty of rain. The rain saturated the soil, and many a tree fell to the ground due to shallow or weak roots. Looking at why some trees fell and others did not, I recalled the oak tree planted in my front yard.
When my husband and I purchased our home in 1997, it was brand new, and the subdivision had basically been deforested. There was absolutely no shade on our corner lot. I decided that an October Red Maple would be the ideal tree to plant on the corner. So, we carefully chose the tree according to our budget and the location of the nursery where the tree was grown. The tree began its life about 90 miles away in McMinnville, TN, at a tree farm. The maple was planted in the late fall of 1997 per my dad’s instructions. This was so the roots could attach to the soil without having to be concerned with the leaves. My husband and I followed some advice and added soil amendments for food, and staked the tree to allow for movement. We were hopeful. Our hopes were dashed in the late spring and summer of 1998 when the 13-year cicadas popped out of the ground. Oh, they were everywhere. Loud and obnoxious. Adult cicadas have only one purpose, and that is to mate. The great outdoors had become a singles bar with the most obscene ‘music’ of the cicada mating buzz. The females found my maple tree to be a wonderful place to lay the eggs of their progeny. And after the progeny hatched a couple of months later, those little nymphs fell to the ground and burrowed in the roots of my still-tender maple tree.
In 1999, the tree barely woke up from its winter slumber. There were underground trails all around the base of the tree where the moles, voles, and other underground critters had dined on the tasty little cicada nymphs. The summer of 1999 was especially harsh, and by the spring of 2000, the maple tree was deceased. That corner needed a tree. A big one. To buy an estate tree from a nursery was way too expensive, and my husband and I were in the middle of a complex adoption. So, we waited. In the early winter of 2001, my husband, Dan, had a coworker that had recently bought some land that was to be cleared for his new home. Dan asked his coworker if it would be okay to dig up a couple of smaller trees as the property was filled with oak and hickory trees. Dan and our son drove out to the property with the intention of acquiring at least three trees to plant on the western side of the house. When Dan came home, there was only one tree; an oak. It was a skinny whip, only about 4 feet tall. We dug a hole and plopped it in. No special prep and no staking.
My dad was an official ‘garden geezer’ with certification from the Holden (no relation) Arboretum in Cleveland, Ohio. Dad told me we didn’t need to stake a tree that size and to just let it be. Later that summer, I found out why a skinny little tree is called a whip. The little tree seemed very comfortable sitting on the corner. In late spring, the scrawny branches sprung big oak leaves. It had survived the winter! The little tree sat happy and content until late summer. A violent storm squall and the poor little tree was bent to the ground in the strong winds. I thought the trunk was going to break in half or become uprooted in the strong wind. Nope. The little whip survived. Over the next several years, there were more storm squalls torturing that little tree and bending the tree to Its maximum. The tree stood. The branches were intact. Year after year, it grew despite the suffering that the storms, droughts, and cicada invasions had inflicted. The skinny little whip grew thicker and taller and began to produce acorns.
Over the next several years, we pruned the lower branches that had decided to drape downward. More for the sake of convenience as mowing under the tree became a bit dangerous for the noggin. We didn’t really mow the grass; we mowed acorns. Lots of acorns. The squirrels enjoyed hiding the acorns all over the yard and in my flower bed. I’d pull the sprouted fruit of the squirrel’s summer labor constantly.
By the winter of 2023, the tree had grown taller than our single-story house and provided much need shade to our yard and driveway. In February, a bomb cyclone came through with hurricane-force winds and torrential rain. The wind and rain felled large trees, and smaller trees just popped out of the ground. In the midst of the strongest winds, I watched the branches of my oak sway and rattle. I was afraid we might lose a couple of the larger branches, if not the tree. Smaller branches succumbed to the hellish winds, yet, the oak tree stayed. It survived. In March, I could see signs of leaf buds and the promise of renewed life.
Seeing the tree being tortured by nature reminded me of ensuring our roots were strong. The reason my once skinny little oak didn’t blow over was that it was able to move and adapt to the environment. The roots of an oak tree run deep and will grip around rocks deep underground if given the chance. The suffering my little oak went through helped it grow and become deep-rooted. It did not fall over in a strong storm. This is a lesson for my own faith. Strong storms have tested me in my marriage and in the adoption of my son. My son’s near-death ICU hospitalization in 2012 tested me against evil forces. A recent experience with friendship has tested my ability to forgive. I reflect that each time, I have turned to the good soil of Christ and the Eucharist. I have allowed my roots to deepen in his love. But there’s the word – allowed. When we allow the suffering, no matter how small or large, to form us and reform us, we grow stronger. May I continue to allow Christ to permit the suffering so that I may grow in the strength of holiness and not bow to the storms of the world.
Beautiful comparison!! I'll look and think of the Tree Roots as somrthing more!!!
Beautiful reflection, Wendy. Allowing strife to strengthen us is one of our most difficult lessons. You’ve described it so well. Thank you.