From Ashes

I cried over a tree last week.

Our tree. It had really become almost a part of our family, and she had to come down.

She’d been sick for a while, likely even before we bought the house. We tried to heal her, but she was too far gone.

So, this year, we had to cut her down. And I cried—maybe because we named her, and it’s harder to let a tree go when it goes from an “it” to something more like a pet. Maybe I associate this tree with my “better brain days”—those little blips I’ve had during recovery when I have been able to take Johnny outside to enjoy our tree. He loved to let the weeping cherry branches brush over his face. The branches reached down to us. She felt more personal than your average higher-than-you-can-reach oak.

She has what’s known as a sucker—a “mini tree”—growing at her base. So, we kept that part, hoping after the shock of the intense pruning, it will begin to flourish and grow once again.

Even though taking the tree down was hard, it was necessary. And I used the sawdust from that day as a protective mulch over our grass seeds to protect them from the birds and deer and to help encourage growth.

And all this crazy, down-to-almost-nothing pruning that we had to do for our tree got me thinking. It had me reflecting (as gardening and yard work often does) on how similar these things are to our own walks with Christ.

It reminds me of how God redeems broken things. Like sawdust, the ashes of our really hard stuff—the remains of those refining fires—can be used to help others grow. They can protect those who are vulnerable from being devoured.

There’s a constant redemptive, healing rhythm in nature. And it’s true of us as well.

Our cherry tree looks different. It will probably have a couple years of shock before it starts thriving again. But growth is still possible. And a different kind beauty still remains.

There’s another aspect of my latest venture in the garden that reminded me of a verse I read this morning. I didn’t know this until now, but the sawdust from the tree smells amazing. It’s sweet and pleasant and smells of cherries. And it reminds me of 2 Corinthians 2:15, “For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.” And I think it’s true in our own lives, that sometimes the aroma of Christ is strongest in the midst of a pruning season—in the midst of those hard things that cut us down to our roots.

I have hope for this tree, that what is left is deeply rooted enough to heal in this hard season and begin thriving again. And that is my prayer for you as well.

May you be deeply rooted. May the ashes (or sawdust) of your afflictions be turned to His glory, a mercy to those who are vulnerable. Through your deeply rooted love of Christ, may the “fragrance of the knowledge of Him” be spread everywhere. Even in the midst of your own deep pruning.

Invisible Battles

“How’s your day going?”

I’ve heard Travis ask this question hundreds of times since before we were even dating. It wasn’t me he was asking (though he of course cares how I’m doing). This is a question he’s asked every cashier, every waiter, barista, receptionist (you name it!) he’s met. I quickly adopted the practice. I loved watching the “customer service” exterior melt away, and lock eyes with another human who finally felt seen in the middle of a day spent invisible.

Sometimes the meeting was brief with a genuine “thank you for asking” and sometimes the question became a safe space for a soul to become unburdened. We’ve met and prayed for a lot of people. Each one facing their own invisible battle. You’d never know unless you asked.

These days, it’s even harder to know the battles being fought. Our family is in the midst of one now. We have been since December 2019. And up until recently I didn’t realize how few people really knew. It just goes to show how hard it is to connect in this season. To know one another. And how easy it is to get caught up in keeping your head above water and forgetting to ask for a life raft.

If you didn’t know, I am the voice you hear giving the Riverbend announcements. They sound cheerful, upbeat, and easy. But beneath that “customer service” exterior are dozens of takes of me slurring my words, forgetting how to say something, stuttering… My invisible battle is a brain injury. One that is taking so much longer to recover from than we ever anticipated. Often times voicing over the announcements is all I am able to do in a day. So Travis’s invisible battle is caring for me, our son, and our home without knowing when he’ll get to rest, or when I will get better.

In my recovery, I’ve met a lot of people –– patients, receptionists, physical and occupational therapists — who I have gotten to talk to (verbal skills permitting). And I’ve learned some of their invisible battles too. As I become more able to type (speech is still a challenge at times), I have gotten to connect more with some of our Riverbend family. And we’ve been able to encourage one another and make some of our battles a little more visible, making one another feel a little more known. 

All this to say, in a season dominated by isolation, I want you to know that you are not truly alone (so, reach out to someone!). Every single person I’ve met has a battle they’re fighting. I know you have one, too. Give yourself lots of grace. And extend that grace to others. If you see a cashier who is less than polite, stop and ask how their day is going. More times than not you’ll watch as they relax a bit more, you’ll connect with another human, and you’ll both leave feeling a little less alone.

Just one more way we can be “in it together.”