I go to a place where trees reach for the sky and writers do too.
We arrive carrying words in our minds, dreams in our hearts, hopes we’ve whispered silently to the ceiling in the night.
It doesn’t matter that I’m on faculty, or have a book published, or anything else.
Here I am a child again asking the playground questions, “Does anyone want me? Do I fit in?”
I look at the trees again and I wonder, “How did they get so tall?”
And I realize…
Not by striving but by being.
Not in a day but through years of growth so small it can’t be seen.
We sometimes talk of platforms in this world–building them, being on them, maintaining them. What if we (especially me) were more like the trees?
And the most powerful tree of all formed a cross so that…
But I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all men to myself. John 12:32
No platforms. Only crosses.
It’s an entirely different sort of dreaming.
Another type of trust.
Not of becoming more but less so that we can make much of the One we love.
So here in this place where trees try to reach the sky and writers do too…I choose instead to bow, to kneel at the foot of the cross. To worship rather than work, serve rather then strive.
It’s a choice I’ll have to make again. Every day. Because my heart is prone to wander, my self-sufficiency quick to grow. But this is the only way.
Not trying to touch the sky but insisting on touching His heart.
I shift my gaze from the trees and look at the path before me.
And I breathe deeply of grace…clear as the mountain air.
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