Green Trees

In my teaching science course, we had to do a lab outside where we were supposed to write what we saw, smelled, and heard as we observed trees in the fall. 

That took about 3 minutes, and then my mind reached peak symbolism-mode. Sometimes it takes over and I can't stop it, but usually I'm not writing so it goes unrecorded. I figured "why not?" so here's what I wrote underneath my see/smell/hear chart. I'm not even sure I get where I was going.

The fall is a season of changes. Changes in color, shape, temperature. It’s a season of loss for a season of barrenness, a season of waiting for a season of newness. 

It makes me wonder about the trees that don’t change, that won’t lose their leaves like the others. Is that a good thing that they don’t lose their leaves? Bad? Neither?

 The green trees never have to sit dormant for months, cold and bare, waiting for vibrancy to spring back. They still flower with the other trees in the spring, but they don’t undergo the same transformation as their neighbors.

 Why does that make them less impressive to me? Why is it so intriguing to see the warmth of summer trees transformed into the peak of color, emptied for the cold gray of winter trees, and then replaced again by green? Why am I thinking so much about trees? I’m supposed to just be looking at them. 

But we never see the green trees lose all they have. We never see them empty and lifeless. They’re never stripped of all they’ve worked for since spring. Granted it’s not a permanent change, but still. It’s all taken away. 

Isn’t it the emptiness and lifelessness that makes us appreciate spring so much? If the trees all stayed the same, there would be much less to admire. There would be no little blooms to watch reappear after a long season of dormancy. 

Some trees lose it all, and some trees never have to face even temporary bareness. Wouldn’t that be nice? I really don’t know...

 Part of me says yes. It would be nice to never lose what you’ve worked for. But part of me says no. Because the green trees never experience the slow coming-back of life.

Built Together

The pastor of my church encouraged us to reflect on and share what the Lord has been teaching us recently through Redeemer. For the past two months, I've been thinking a lot about how I've seen the body of Christ in action.

If you had asked me two and a half years ago, I would have confidently said I knew what the body of Christ looked like. I had studied it and could even recite some of the “one another” verses. I knew all about the wonderful things we could do to support, love, serve, and encourage each other. But if there’s one thing that stands out about my time at Redeemer, it is that I had not really experienced the other side of the body of Christ before: the hard stuff. I hadn’t ever seen that:

The body of Christ faces conflict, and a lot of it.

The body of Christ is an exhausting thing to be a part of sometimes.

The body of Christ is a community with hurting and heartbroken members.

The body of Christ requires more sacrificed time and energy than we really want to give.

The body of Christ is hit with trials from every direction.

The body of Christ shares its vulnerable and scary truths.

The body of Christ reveals and calls out what you’re desperately trying to hide.

In two years, all of that? Wah, wah. 

But praise the Lord that the other side - the good stuff - is also true!

The body of Christ faces conflict, but has been given grace that allows it to confront conflict in a gracious and forgiving way (John 1:16, Eph. 4:32, Col. 3:13).

The body of Christ is an exhausting thing to be a part of sometimes, but it pushes forward and it strengthened by the grace of Christ (2 Tim. 2:1).

The body of Christ is a community with hurting and heartbroken members, so it hurts with them, carries their burdens, and then encourages its members with the truth of the gospel (Rom. 12:15, Gal. 6:2, 1 Th. 5:9-11)

The body of Christ requires more sacrificed time and energy than we really want to give, but drops everything in a brother’s or sister’s time of need to serve (Gal. 6:2, 1 Pet. 4:9).

The body of Christ is hit with trials from every direction, but has the other members to share in the suffering and push one another to persevere, knowing that dependence on Christ leads to completeness (2 Tim. 2:3, Jam. 1:2-4).

The body of Christ shares its vulnerable and scary truths, but responds in the least expected way, by pressing in and loving one another through their hurt and shame (John 13:35).

The body of Christ reveals and calls out what you’re desperately trying to hide, but confesses sin and rejoices that there’s no condemnation in Christ (Jam. 5:16, Rom. 8:1).

“So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus himself being the cornerstone, in whom the whole structure, being joined together, grows into a holy temple in the Lord. In him you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit.” Ephesians 2:19-22

Infinitely Creative

“To every man, in his acquaintance with new art, there comes a moment when that which before was meaningless first lifts, as it were, one corner of the curtain that hides its mystery, and reveals, in a burst of delight which later and fuller understanding can hardly ever equal, one glimpse of the indefinite possibilities within.” C.S. Lewis | Out of the Silent Planet

“What has been the biggest thing you’ve learned this summer?” my friend asked a few weeks ago.

“Hmm…” I tried to answer, and I think I said something about languages and cultures, but I was truly thinking:

I don’t know... Surely I learned something. Maybe I need to be home to realize it?

A couple of weeks ago in Finland, my friend and I had this conversation. I had no idea what I had learned. I hadn’t even thought about it amidst the constant pack-and-move routine that characterized my summer. I realized there was something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it for a few more hours.

And a few days later, as I was desperately trying to fall asleep on my flight from Reykjavik to Boston, it hit me.

However, up until this evening, I’ve still struggled to put into words what exactly it was.

“I learned that God does so much more than we could imagine.”

"I’ve learned that there is so much potential in what God could do that we will never realize ourselves.”

I’ve stumbled through it a few times in sentences like those, but I haven’t been content with my explanations.

Today I read this quote above (s/o to Nations). It’s exactly what I’ve been feeling and trying to express in words.

A burst of delight which later and fuller understanding can hardly ever equal, one glimpse of the indefinite possibilities within.

This feeling started to become evident when I walked up to this waterfall last Tuesday. It’s not the biggest one. It’s not the most famous. It’s just off the highway at the end of a short gravel road. I learned about it via Instagram and I actually missed the exit and had to turn around because there wasn't a sign. 

But I was the only person there that morning and I was speechless.

As I looked at it (and every other part of Iceland), I thought:

This can’t be earth.

This isn’t even the cool one!

I didn’t even know a place could look like this.

I formed the hypothesis that God created Iceland to remind us that He is infinitely capable of doing things that we'd never think of ourselves. 

(At least that's what I gathered - I'll ask Him one day)

If I knew nothing about Iceland and someone told me this was the only waterfall to see, I would have been content with it. All I could do was stare at it. The amount of water pouring over the rocks, the clarity of the water. It blew me away. 

But it isn’t even great enough to have a sign!

I wondered, how many other incredible things have I passed without knowing? Not just in Iceland, but in the past couple of months, and in my 22 years of life.

How many incredible things are ahead? Both on Highway 35 right now and wherever I end up going next May.

Looking back now, I realize that all throughout the summer I caught glimpses of this thought.

I’d arrive and think “Wow, I never knew this ­  language, place, food, resource, concept, person, belief, idea, landform, etc…   existed!”

Mountains made of white stone, fields with free-roaming cattle, generous strangers, geysers, dishes I ate but couldn't pronounce, miles of rainbow wildflowers, picking fruit in the front yard, the clearest blue waters, fog-capped cliffs…

And I’ve realized that my thoughts this summer can be summed up in this: if God is so infinitely creative with rocks and water, how much more can He do with His children?