A Shared Root System

I recently returned home from Vermont, where I spent time with some people who have become very dear to me. A couple of years ago, a friend reached out to me to be a part of something she was putting together. The truth is that I didn't have many details, but I had what was most important; Trust that if this particular friend was going to put her efforts towards something that it was worth paying attention to. I accepted the invitation, and what has happened over two years through this group of people has been so sacred I hardly have words, and quite frankly, I feel protective of it in many ways.

Something happens when you get an intimate look into another person's real life. You get beyond the smile that is trying to tell you that everything is ok. You stop long enough to see that their eyes tell a different story: tired to the bone, grieving, longing to be seen, and deep-down desires that offer a window into the most vulnerable parts of their soul. If you have ever had the chance to see tender places touched in an otherwise "strong and capable" person, to watch the dam break and for tears to fall, I'm not sure there is a greater honor.

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I want to tell you a story about how God has spoken to me through a series of encounters with trees. Of course, I'm writing a book about trees, at least in part. But I'll be honest, I have had my doubts that talking too much about trees would have me seen as a little bit out there, a little bit odd, a little bit new age. I suppose the fact that other than humans, trees are the most talked about living thing in the Bible should say otherwise, but I digress.

I grew up in southern Oregon, surrounded by mountains and evergreens. Our summers were spent camping in the middle of the natural, rugged, relatively untouched forest. It wasn't the glamping that we have grown accustomed to these days. It was before cell phones and the internet before the world became noisy. I still remember the mornings out there—brisk, calm, full of potential. I can still picture the morning scene. The fire crackling, fishing poles propped up around picnic tables where decks of cards sat from the night before, dad in a flannel shirt. These were simple times, just our family, often some friends, and a soundtrack of nature.

I suppose my love for the forest wasn't always on the forefront of my mind, but the places we live form us regardless of our knowledge they do. I grew up surrounded by a kind of beauty that will always be a part of me, one that I will always long for. It was only after leaving the place that I knew so well that I began to understand that longing.

When questions arise in me, and they often do, I go outside, take a deep breath, and tune into the sounds of nature. The God I believe in created this world and everything in it, and as much as I cannot unsee tragic parts of life, I now can't look away from the intricacies of God's creation. He leaves us clues everywhere we look, and I'm just so convinced many of them are in the trees.

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We experience trees above the ground, but there is a whole world underground that is worth paying attention to. That weekend in Vermont, somebody I have never met brought a book to an exchange that we have been doing since the start of this group. She introduced the book as "quirky" and a little obscure without saying the title. She had my attention. She gave the book title, and my heart skipped a beat as soon as she did. "It's a book called The Hidden Life Of Trees." It was her copy, which somehow made it all the more special.

This person knew nothing of my story, where I grew up, and nothing of the way that my bookshelves are stacked with other books about trees. She didn't know how my life intersected with the jack pine tree and how that sent me on a journey to writing a book. She didn't know about my encounter with Jon Bucker in Wichita and how his coffee scoop may have been the most poignant reminder I have ever received to keep going. She had no idea of any part of my story, but she had the sense that this quirky little book was meant for somebody there and that somebody was me.

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There was a time not so long ago when the thought of God being kind and tender was not one that entered my mind when I had pictures of Him. The first time I considered that was one I will never forget. I was in Colorado as the Aspens were turning the most magnificent yellow. I spent days reflecting on my story on a rock in the middle of a stream. I had given names to the harder parts of my story, and for the first time in my life, I could picture God not just as a father but as a friend. It was a turning point in my life. Somehow by grace that I will never deserve, it is His kindness that keeps me going.

This morning, I opened up the book I had been gifted to chapter one, "Friendships." It speaks to the underground interconnectedness of trees, the parts we don't see and likely don't give much thought to.

"But why are trees such social beings? Whey do they share food with their own species and sometime even go so far as to nourish their competitors? The reasons are the same as for human communities: there are advantages to working together. On its own, a tree cannot establish a consistent local climate. It is at the mercy of wind and weather. But together, many trees create an ecosystem that moderates extremes of heat and cold, stores a great deal of water, and generates a great deal of humidity. And in this protected environment, trees can live to be very old. To get to this point, the community must remain intact no matter what. If every tree were looking out only for itself, then quite a few of them would never reach old age. Regular fatalities would result in many large gaps in the tree canopy, which would make it easier for storms to get inside the forest and uproot more trees. The heat of the summer would reach the forest floor and dry it out. Every tree would suffer."

The parts of the trees that we do see are magnificent. I think of a forest of tall evergreens like where I grew up. When I close my eyes and picture a calming place, it is always there. They have a scent that I call home. I now live in the south, a land filled with the presence of hardy oak trees. I've grown accustomed to the ones who lose their leaves marking seasons. I've meandered through aspen stands to the soundtrack of their quaking leaves.

I love the playfulness of a palm tree and the brut strength of a giant sequoia. The ancient juniper trees met me in the time of my deepest grief in the badlands of Oregon, and I can still feel the ways that God spoke to me right there in the high desert.

Peter Wohlleben doesn't waste time drawing our attention to how trees are like humans. They give us a road map for creating and sustaining communities. I love that he doesn't mince words. Forests cannot survive without sharing resources and remaining intact no matter what. They were created to be in the community; far as I can tell, they instinctively live for the betterment of the community. The key to reaching old age is simple in a forest. They do these things following the order of God.

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What I have loved about this community that my friend has formed is the recognition of the importance of our shared root system, which is natural, unassuming, and, quite frankly, rare in today's culture. Surely this is a glimpse of heaven. What is it that makes something beautiful? I'm not sure there is a single instance of beauty not being a group effort. There is a shared root system in everything we see, in everything that has been created by God or by man. It's there regardless of our recognizing it.

The gift of this group of women is that we not only see this but have a shared and clear picture of the one who created it all. Make no mistake, in some way, every person there has experienced profound loss and grief. They have understood exposure to the wind and the heat. Some are in the thick of the most heartbreaking and confusing seasons of their lives in such a way that they have nothing to give. The power of proximity during these times in our lives is hidden underground. What makes something beautiful? It is the knowledge that are places where we can bring what we have, and if that looks like grief finding its way out of our body, we are not alone.

Two years ago, my life intersected with the Jack Pine trees. It's not a tree that turns many heads, but it had my attention for some reason. Over a couple of days, I went from being curious to almost feeling attached to these trees. It was during that time so much of my life, even the seemingly fragmented parts, all started to make more sense.

This friend reached out right around the time I entered the book-writing process, which can often feel isolating. It isn't a writers-only group per se, but one full of women working in their homes and communities. It is a group where we communicate what is hidden deep beneath the surface through our above-ground life.

I opened the book I had been gifted to find this verse, along with a note: "They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor" (Isaiah 61:3b). Having lived in a place full of hardy, majestic oak trees, I know them to be deeply rooted, able to withstand even the strongest of storms. The first part of that verse talks about the exchange of beauty for ashes and gladness instead of mourning. They will be called oaks of righteousness.

This group has been a beautiful thing to behold. Never have I experienced this kind of anchoring—one where we can bring what little we have on our own to find something far greater. Where does my strength lie, you ask? One day I would have told you it was because I was strong, and today I'm telling you it is because we are.