The sight of the sun peeking over the horizon gladdened the little tree. He stretched his branches in greeting and tried to rouse his cohorts, but they slept on. They always slept – their minds as captive as their roots in the tiny pots that held them.
But the little tree looked beyond the pot and knew its confinement was only temporary. He stretched his limbs higher and higher until he swallowed all the warmth the sun had to offer.
“Someday,” he thought dreamily. “Someday I’ll be sixty feet tall and I will reach up and touch the sun.”
Things began to scurry around him. Maybe this would be the day he was chosen – not that he truly knew what being chosen actually meant. There were whispers. Birds told stories. It was said by the cardinal that some left and were planted in soil without bounds. She had even perched on one tree that must have been a hundred feet tall! But dodgy squirrels spun tales of trees made into mulch after sitting for too many seasons. He tried not listen to the mocking of squirrels… tried to keep his optimistic bent. Still he worried a little because the squirrels were convincing.
He heard another tree grumble that it didn’t want to leave this place where there was always warm sun overhead, cool water from a hose, and good soil to nourish. This tree liked it here.
Others listened. They rustled their agreement. But not the little tree. Here was not where he was meant to be. He knew he was destined to be planted in deep soil, to weather dry times, and to grow. There had to be something better than water from a hose and life in a plastic pot.
Today would be the day – he was certain!
But the day left, as did several others and still he sat in a neat little nursery row as night fell over the potted forest.
In the twilight of another day, he drooped as he wondered what those who chose didn’t see in him. Was his trunk not straight? Were his branches not full enough? Optimism became difficult for the little tree as other trees were chosen and he was not. Yet even when he felt loneliest, he decided to push discouragement away. “Be positive,” he told himself meekly.
At his very lowest, a wren flew in and began building a nest in his boughs. She told of far off places called forests and meadows that warmed his soul. It comforted the little tree that this mama bird had picked him over others.
Then one day, it happened. The little tree was chosen! He and seven others were hoisted onto a flatbed truck. He was so elated, it didn’t even bother him that the grumbliest grouch was nearby with his worried talk. No, the little tree was eager to get on with this new life. The truck moved past fields dotted with houses and barns, rolling toward a distant city. Stops became frequent and the buildings high enough to block out the sun. Noise, traffic, and chaos swelling around him caused the little tree to doubt.
“What if I can’t see the sun?” panicked the little tree. “How will I grow?”
So far was he from his quiet little life at the nursery. So strange were his new surroundings. This became less an adventure and seemed more a punishment. Yet he had no control over where the journey took him, for he was strapped to the truck and unable to free himself. The only things in his control was the tiny light of hope flickering deep within.
“It will be okay,” he said sheepishly to the grumbly grouch nearby.
The grumbly grouch only humphed.
Finally, the truck stopped before a newly-constructed building. In front of large glass doors, the little tree saw eight freshly-dug holes around a pathway. He was to be a part of a city garden – a sanctuary, of sorts. He looked up at open, blue sky only interrupted by a circling pigeon watching the scene below and he felt happy.
The trees were slowly hoisted into the holes and fresh soil tamped into place around them. To be out of the pot felt nice and for the first time, the little tree stretched not only his branches but his roots, as well. All was good.
The city calmed around him and he drifted to sleep for the first time in his new home.
He was awoken early by another truck idling nearby. This truck did not have more trees or shrubs on its bed. This truck delivered bricks and stones that workers furiously ferried all around the garden and throughout the day they laid out a walkway that hemmed each tree into a little circle of dirt only slightly larger than their former pots.
And the little tree realized he was a prisoner again.
His roots were bound by bricks and paving stones. He was stuck and he moaned a woeful moan. The other trees rustled scornfully at him. Seven voices – lamenting their predicament and mocking his hope that was now but a distant memory.
The little tree sunk deeper and deeper into himself because he knew this was permanent. Stones were forever. He was stuck. Days turned into weeks. Rains came and went, as did his leaves. The little tree grew taller and, although stuck, he found some contentment in the city. Birds made nests, laid eggs that hatched, and fetched food for little ones who screeched day and night.
One day the inevitable happened – his growing root struck the paving stone and he felt that hard thing he could not change – his limit… his boundary. That immutable reality hemmed him in. His heart sunk once more. Even witnessing his baby birds fly for the first time didn’t ease his spirit. The cold edge of his limit ruined everything for a very long time.
Until… one morning he felt what might be a crack. Yes, it was definitely a crack – a tiny sliver of hope. It was a very small crack between the stones, but yes, it did exist! Since the tip of his root was quite small, he could wriggle it into the space. He wondered what lay outside the crack, but had to be patient. Only time would give him the answer.
Rains fell, followed by sun. Seasons rolled past. The little tree pushed at whatever opening he could find. Even when the winter winds howled around his bare branches, he pushed through cracks around stone after stone, buckling them as his roots grew thicker until one glorious day, he reached open soil.
Oh, the joy! All of that hard work… all of the years of pushing, poking, and prodding had finally paid off. He was free!
In his effort to grow, he had not thought of his neighbors. When he turned to share his triumph and urge them to do the same, he was dismayed. He was twice the height of the others and his canopy much broader. His straining against the stones had produced growth where their resignation proved to be their undoing. Some weren’t even the same trees that had arrived on the truck with him – they were replacements for those who had given up.
But the little tree… well, he wasn’t little any longer.
The physical limits blocking his way were never as much of a barrier as the inward restraint of discouragement. For where there is hope, there is always room for growth.
13 thoughts on “Straining against the Stones: The Story of the Little Tree”
Sometime you have to push through those little cracks that life presents you.
Absolutely. And often it takes great patience and time.
Oh this was lovely!
What a gift to my morning routine…(Stretches her branches wide to the new day).
And can I say how much I love the watercolor?
Stretch those branches!!! the watercolor was a public domain pic. Not sure whose it is.
Wow! Loved the solidity/sharpness of the tree trunk against the softness of the texture of the paper. There are some real gems out there in Public Domain~~
How do you manage to be so descriptive, pulling the reader right into the center of that tree? Or, for that matter, the center of any of your subjects? God has blessed you with a very special gift! Now, do you suppose you could do something with Leviticus and Numbers? 😊
Thank you Lisa. I love telling stories, but I’m not sure L & N were meant for creativity. There has to be room for fact too, I guess.
i love this very much, mark –
I’m so glad, Beth.
Mark, Hope has been my guiding light since 1993 when I entered the world of Pediatric Oncology. My hopes had triumphs but they also experienced severe losses. Sometimes those completely overshadowed the triumphant hopes. However, to this day, I find ways to keep hope alive to give encouragement. The story was beautiful. Thank you!
Hope is a good thing. Thank you Margy.
“For where there is hope, there is always room for growth.”
Mark Myers: Wise Man of Deep Feelings?
Great work, buddy!
It’s all a ruse…