Straining against the Stones: The Story of the Little Tree

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.

What’s Your Story?

When I was a boy, I was big. Despite my size, I had great hands and a good arm. But none of that mattered when I put on my helmet and shoulder pads because the coach only saw big. I got in line with the boys trying out for quarterback and wide receiver, but he moved me to the offensive line and told me that the only time I got to touch the ball was if there was a fumble. And if there was a fumble, I was only allowed to fall on the ball – never, ever, never, ever, never try to pick it up.

Note the discontented #63 who is not #12 or #88

I remember one game, we were losing late and the coach called a screen to my side of the field. The play developed and I ran ahead to block. I couldn’t see the action behind me, but we kept moving downfield – no whistle, so I kept blocking. As I approached the end zone, something strange must have happened and I saw the ball in front of me at about the 5 yard-line. I wasn’t engaged with a defender at the time, so nature took over and I grabbed the ball and ran into the end zone. An offensive lineman’s dream. I scored the winning touchdown!

Everyone was cheering and crowding around me… except my coach.

At the ensuing practice, my coach yanked my facemask and pulled me all over the field while yelling, “You had one job. One job! Fall on the ball!” I ran suicides for hours and then a drill where another coach would throw a ball and I had to plop on it.

Fair? Maybe… maybe not. But it is a part of my story.

 

We are all living a story.

 

I believe stories have power. I believe that a good story, well-told can change the world.

 

There are five basic elements that a story must contain:

  • characters
  • setting
  • plot
  • conflict
  • them

 

Let’s take the Bible. It is a story book – a love story between the characters of God and Man, with Satan thrown in as an antagonist. The setting is three-fold: Heaven, Hell, and Earth. And the plot is played out over several thousand years as man demonstrates his inability to achieve holiness. The Old Testament points out continual conflict, usually brought about by the weakness and folly of man. And the New Testament shares Jesus the Savior and his atoning sacrifice as the theme and resolution of the story.

Just like he did in the Bible, God is weaving a story in and around each one of us. All of our stories are different but they will all contain the basic elements of story and they are all worth telling.

Here are seven things experience has taught me about story:

You are not the author of your story – Of course, you have input on the action – often through human fault, weakness, and disobedience. But God is writing your story and mine.

You can alter the plot – Twists and turns happen in stories. If you are dissatisfied with your story as it is being written, consult the author and look down a new path.

There will be conflict of some kind – Conflict is not a potential, it is an assurance.

Your story can be used for good – No matter how unexceptional you think your story is, remember that the author is the preeminent best-seller.

You may not be the main character of your story – For every quarterback on the football field there are five linemen. Just like when I was a boy, I did not get chosen to be the quarterback or wide receiver of my story. I am made to block for a twelve-year-old little girl.

You may not like your story – Loss, heartache, and pain may make your story seem unpalatable. But that doesn’t make it any less your story.

The resolution of a believer’s story will not take place here – For the believer, the story remains unresolved until he or she hears, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”

Although you are not writing your story, you have three very important roles to play:

  • Pay attention to how those elements that make up your story come together.
  • Decide how your story can be used to benefit others.
  • Share your story as often as possible to help as many people as possible.

 

 

Your story matters and deserves to be told.