Whisper Scared

I lay there under the blankets, our bodies close in the dark. I whisper my fear as our foreheads touch and my eyes search for an anchor.

I’m watching trees that are tall and deep and shallow and young trying to hold on in the storms, but the raging winds tear at them and break them. The onslaught sometimes too much for even the deepest roots.

And I wonder is our tree strong enough?

This living entity that hope and faith and tending should lead to a strong oak that spans generations with rings too great to count.

I am afraid.

tree roots

I have been picking up branches from other trees, gathering them close hoping that the wounds will heal for their trees and silently praying that mine will stand strong. I look around at roots in an exposed, tangled mess of all the truth that lies beneath the surface.

I have stepped over too many trunks left prostrate on the ground, and I have stopped to sit on stumps left as a reminder of what was and what could have been. Stumps like a graveyard carved with anniversary and death.

tree graveyard

Our tree is no stronger than those around me. I am not immune to the storms that rage. I pray that I tend enough, that I water fully and that our tree moves toward the light — always. I pray that our roots go deep into the heart of the earth and cling with all their might. I pray I do enough because the wreckage around astounds me into scared whispers deep in the night praying, hoping we are clinging and tending and moving toward the Son.

tree in hands


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