I am so thankful

for trees.

They surround me with

picture after picture

of life in God.

They way they stand

on impossibly narrow trunks,

it shouldn’t work.

What I see

defies the law of gravity –

all around me

miracles.

Except, what I don’t see

explains the miracle:

a root system as deep and wide

as the tree.

So is it a miracle, how the tree stands?

Does it break the law of gravity?

Only when you don’t know

the invisible part.

Like every miracle.

I want my life to be like that.

So deeply, so vastly rooted in God

that what people see

looks miraculous, like it shouldn’t work.

And leaves! Oh!

Winter’s dark, tangled, branches

blush green, as the tiny fresh leaves curl out

from what looks like

dead wood; and grow

flattening and spreading and turning

their faces to the sun.

They actually take light and

transform it

into energy.

They breathe in my waste,

and give me fresh air.

They dance in the breeze, catching and

scattering sunlight, dappling shadows on

the ground.

They grow thick on the trees –

extravagant elegance,

until

the green fades into yellow, orange, red

and they let go

falling, falling.

So wasteful! The marvellous little engines,

millions and millions of them,

all that fabulous abundance

mouldering on the ground

as though

God doesn’t care.

As though he can just

grow new ones.

Easily.

And every year he does.

I’m thankful for trees because they are a

testament

to the cyclical, seasonal nature of life:

times of abundance, times of bare-ness.

But always life.

Always the roots digging in and holding on.

Always the branches stretching into the sky.

Always beauty.

Always hope.

Always a miracle.

A picture

of life in God.

Thank you, Father.