The Trees Have Known All Along

I grew up in a forest, so perhaps I have always expected trees and creatures to be part of the general conversation.

Even now, I can walk out my front door before nine in the morning and find that the neighborhood is already quite busy.

The deer have usually arrived first. Dozens of them wander through with absolutely no regard for property lines, landscaping budgets or the fact that certain plants were purchased specifically because the tag said deer resistant.

The deer, apparently, do not read.

Two roadrunners live in my front yard. I don't remember inviting them, but they have established residency and seem quite comfortable with the arrangement. They hurry about on important roadrunner business, stopping occasionally to look at me as though I am the one trespassing.

There is a hawk who makes regular appearances overhead, looking serious and managerial. And an owl, who by nine in the morning seems ready to clock out just as the rest of us are getting started.

And then there are the trees.

The quiet ones.

They stand behind all this morning commotion providing apartments for birds, highways for squirrels, lookout towers for hawks and shady meeting places for deer.

Perhaps that's why I love painting trees.

They don't require precision. In fact, they seem to object to it.

Branches bend where they please. Leaves grow in clumps and gaps. Trunks lean. Limbs cross over one another. Nothing matches, and somehow the whole thing works.

A tree is one of the few subjects you can paint a little crooked, a little messy and slightly out of proportion and everyone says,

“What a beautiful tree.”

Which is really quite generous of them.

And perhaps because I have spent so much of my life surrounded by branches, I have always loved the words of Jesus in John 15: “I am the vine; you are the branches.”

There is something wonderfully simple about that picture.

A branch doesn't wake up in the morning with a five-year plan.

It doesn't compare itself to the branch three limbs over or wonder whether it is producing enough leaves. It doesn't spend Tuesday worrying that it might not have enough strength for Friday.

It simply stays connected to the vine.

Abide in me.

Such a small word—abide.

Stay. Remain. Make your home here.

Maybe that's one reason I feel close to God among trees. There is very little striving in a forest. Everything is growing, but nothing seems to be in a hurry.

The branches reach.

The birds arrive.

The deer eat the plants they were specifically instructed not to eat.

And somewhere overhead, the hawk begins his morning shift.

All before nine o'clock.

And somehow, without anybody organizing the whole affair, morning comes beautifully together.

Perhaps the trees have known the secret all along.

Stay close to the Source.

Grow where you're planted.

And don't worry too terribly much if your branches aren't perfectly straight.