The stump
that time a tree fell during the storm
"We need to thank God," he whispered.
The sun hadn’t yet risen on this cold Monday in February. My husband, who had already been up for 30 minutes, shuffled back into our bedroom to deliver the news. “You know that crash we heard last night?” he said as he held my hand. “An oak tree fell. Away from our house.”
My sleepy eyes widened, the shock of that statement reverberating through me. Suddenly, I was very awake. We talked for a moment before he headed back downstairs. There was, after all, still a day ahead of coffee, breakfast, school drop off, work, emails, and now, calling our friend to come take a chain saw to this fallen giant.
Our many oak trees have always been a liability. But they are also my favorite thing about our land. On a humid Saturday in August nearly five and half years ago, we first pulled up to this home as a potential buyer. We had entered or driven by around fifteen homes for sale. Weary from the house hunt, we pulled to the top of this driveway and glanced sideways at each other with a hopeful gleam in our eyes. Our feet hadn’t even crossed the threshold into the house and yet the land, the trees, the possibility here spoke to our hearts.
As I laid in bed afterward, it occurred to me that I hadn’t even heard whipping wind in the night, hadn’t even uttered a prayer for the trees. But I recalled the countless prayers for protection over the years during nights when wind howled through the branches sparking a small fear in my chest. Yes, we need to thank God.
But I wondered, what if I hadn’t prayed? And even still- What if I did pray and it still fell on our home? Surely somewhere in this vast world, a tree fell on someone’s home last night. Was someone praying? Would prayer have stopped that one? Why them and not us?
I began holding up pieces of the week in my mind. Earlier that week, I’d had a conversation with someone about prayer. The previous morning, I’d taught a lesson on healing and prayer for the elementary school kids at church. And that evening, I’d crawled into bed and cracked open the spine for the first time in a book titled “Praying for your Children.” I was sure the intersection of these events was not a coincidence.
While we dodged a physical falling tree, I thought about the intangible hardship that has fallen on families we love. The tree fell even though people prayed fervently. And yet, for those who have gone through hardship and come out the other side a little stronger, I hear the same refrain: “We need to thank God.” For rainbows over hospitals, for meals delivered from friends, for good doctors, for tender timing, for unexpected financial help, for comfort that only the Holy Spirit can give. Sometimes prayer stops a tree from falling and sometimes prayer renders the pain surmountable. Could we still have uttered a prayer of thankfulness if the tree had fallen on our home? I think and hope so.
I thought again of the story I'd taught to the energetic kids at church. In Acts 3, one of Jesus’s followers named Peter heals a beggar who was paralyzed. After the teaching, I pointed to the screen and posed a question to help them go deeper, “What do we learn about God from this story?”
A little girl bravely raised her hand, “God always heals us.”
I paused. Always? I could see their thoughts: “I prayed for my grandma and she still died. What about that?” I felt the weight of her statement and the need to unpack it.
How do I help them understand the power of God? How do I adequately explain this mysterious and wonderful thing we call prayer? How do I water a faith in them that will pray boldly and yet trust God when outcomes are different than we had hoped? I took brief moment to explain as best and as simply as I could. It was one of those Sundays where I went home still mulling over the story.
As these thoughts swam in my head, my hand reached for the bedside lamp. I slipped on warm clothes and made my way to our porch anxious to see the tree. Splintered and cracked about six feet from the ground, the entire trunk lay across our neighbors back yard, far from his house thankfully. If it had fallen in the opposite direction, it would have hit our house right on our bedroom. It wasn’t close enough to have the trunk land on our heads per say, but the upper branches would have damaged our roof and siding. Miraculously, even the chicken coup, a mere seven feet away from the tree, was completely unharmed. Shaking my head in disbelief, I returned inside to pour some much needed coffee.
My son woke a few minutes later and came downstairs dragging his beloved yellow blanket. To say he was devastated feels like putting it mildly. He spent fifteen minutes crying hysterically because he was so sad to loose that tree. I wasn’t even aware he was that attached to the tree, but apparently he’s very attached to all the trees in our yard. Like mother, like son. My husband and I consoled him with the fact that we’d leave the stump for them to play on which cheered him slightly.
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What amazed me was that we almost had the tree taken down this past year. Our arborist friend came to inspect our trees and recommend which ones to trim or take down. This particular tree was rotting in one spot and you could see straight through to the other side. Interestingly, he wasn’t very concerned about it. We could keep an eye on it and leave it for now. Apparently, it would likely fall away from the house because of the way the wind blows in our yard. The typical west winds bend the trees slightly toward our home on that side. The trunks strengthens where it bends making it more resistant over time. He believed it would take an east wind to knock the tree down leaving it in an open space away from our home. Well, thank goodness he was right.
Around the dinner table that evening, my engineer husband explained this science phenomenon to our kids amazing them and, quite honestly, me too. He took a piece of paper, folded it in half, and told us that when something bends the molecules rearrange slightly so it is stronger where it bent in that one direction.
The kids peppered him with a barrage of follow up questions. I stared hard at the tiny piece of paper contemplating molecule arrangement and prayer. The more we bend our knees or hearts in prayer, the stronger we become in the storms. The molecules of our spirits rearrange with every prayer to make us more resilient.
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The following day at breakfast, my son looked at me over the top of his toast and asked, “Can we pray about the tree?”
I paused. “Sure, what do you want to pray for?” He just shrugged. Unsure where he was going with this, I tried to give him some words or ideas, “You want me to… thank God for the tree? That he protected us?”
“Yes. And ask him to raise it again.” he said very matter-of-factly.
Oh boy. He sat through same Bible lesson in his little preschool room too. And over and over he hears me say God can do big things. Of course God can, but I was fairly certain that tree would be cut up by our friend, then mulched and spread across our yard keeping weeds at bay.
I explained what would likely happen, but that I’d still pray. He seemed satisfied. He took another bite of toast as I prayed and then he ran out our porch door to see it again. Still fallen.
I moved on to clean dishes, but his mind didn’t move on. “If God raises it, can we have a joy party? With ice cream and candy?” he asked expectantly.
It might sound like he was trying to manipulate me, but he wasn’t. You see, January was “joy month.” I’m attempting to put into practice the activities from a book, In This House, We will Giggle, in which the author lays out a plan for learning a virtue each month for a year. January was joy. At the end of the month, we had a “joy party,” complete, yes, with candy, ice cream, and dancing. Our definition of joy was “having a glad heart in all things because God is with us.” We specifically talked about how we can have a glad heart even when things are tough. Even when, literally or metaphorically, the tree falls.
I sorted through possible responses and landed on: “Well, what if it doesn’t happen? Can we still have a joy party?”
His eyes lit up with surprise. “Sure!”
I asked if he remembered our Christmas advent book. It began with a verse from Isaiah 11:1: “A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit.” Unsurprisingly, he barely remembered it.
I attempted to explain with something along these lines: “The stump represents something lost or broken. Remember how God made a promise to a family in the Bible that from their family would come a Savior? Remember how there was King David? You know, the boy who fought Goliath? He was in this family. Well, even he wasn’t able to help his people very much. He became a king, but still failed. There were lots of kings, but they couldn’t help everyone. It seemed like all hope was lost for the family of David, whose dad was named Jesse, hence “the stump of Jesse.” His family tree was like a sad, lonely tree stump. But eventually came Jesus, from the family of David, someone who loved God and people perfectly, who was willing to give up his life for all of his friends and family reaching even to us.” I told him that even if our tree was never raised, it can remind us that Jesus was raised to life again after he died.
Maybe if my son can grasp a fraction of this truth in his four year old brain then just maybe, when something more significant comes crashing down, he will recognize God in the midst and believe that from the stump of our loss, something good can grow. We need to thank God. No matter what.
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Two days later, our friend’s crew arrived with hard hats, chain saws, and a very loud chipper. Their breath hung in the frigid air as they worked. My son wore a pair of ear muffs and curled up in a sleeping bag to watch for nearly two hours from the porch. His fascination with tools has no end.
When all was said and done, we walked out to the stump. My oldest daughter was quick to point out that the empty rotten center was shaped kind of like a heart. I leaned in and noticed a vine growing in the middle. My eyes widened. A slow, sweet joy spread through my body aware of God’s presence at that very moment.
I knew this vine was not coming from the actual tree, but I couldn’t stop thinking that God let it grow there for me. For us. To solidify the hope of new life growing out of dead end stumps. To teach me once more that he weaves his Word and our experiences together. To grow me in faith-filled prayer.
From the stump, a shoot can grow. There’s never a wasted prayer, never a wasted breath. Our deepest longings for love and truth are only found in the Gardener’s hands. Tiny green shoots push up from the soil of our prayers bearing witness to the spring that always comes after winter.
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From the first page to the last, trees are a significant theme in the Bible. The first humans ate from the tree of knowledge of good and evil ushering in darkness and suffering. In the very end, there is a tree of life planted by a steam that will be for “the healing of the nations.” (Revelation 22:2)
In the middle of it all, stands the most important tree. One hewn and sanded and nailed together to hold a King falsely accused as a criminal. One in which sin and pain and punishment crushed our Savior instead of us. With his last breath, he gave us back our breath. Hope surged through humanities lungs when he rose three days later.
The wind and lighting do not get the last word. The chainsaw does not have to hack away at all our dreams. Maybe instead, it provides the stand from which we can truly see the goodness of God. Each ring on the tree a reminder that every year of our life is blessed and sustained by the One who rearranges molecules in folded paper, swaying trees, and bending knees.
Let’s have a joy party. We need to thank God.
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Enjoy the photos below that I captured during sunset one day before the tree was chopped up. I loved catching the sunburst from behind the tree.
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