Trees and a Silent God - Part 1

(Am I furiously typing instead of tackling my calculous quiz? Absolutely I am. I will regret this later.) 

When I was 4 or 5 years old, I remember making a playhouse house under a massive bushy cedar. I climbed as high as Mother would allow into the lilac tree and picked as many clusters of those delightful flowers as I possibly could. I used leaves from the weeping willow tree to make soup for my kittens. We moved around a lot in my growing-up years, but one thing that never changed was my attachment to the trees. During a particularly difficult season of life when I was 12, I was planning to run away from home. But I didn't know where I would go until I remembered a certain tree at the edge of the graveyard behind our house that I had hidden in before and decided that was my Hiding Place. I fell asleep then, planning to climb out of my bedroom window at first light, but after a night of sleep, I decided I'd try one more day at home, and never actually ran away. Most of my teenage years were spent on a property with quite a few trees. There were several along the property line that became my friends. A weeping willow, with branches that stretched over the neighbor's yard, and a tire swing that was the neighborhood gathering place. All of us kids scratched our initials into that tree, and several attempts at building a tree fort left an uneven portion of 2x4's haphazardly nailed to a branch. But I sat up there, summer or winter, and talked to God a lot. We now live in the middle of a decent-sized grove of trees. Moving here was very hard for me. I hate change, and I wanted to stay in my hometown, where I knew the people and the trees were my friends and I knew where to go for the best pizza and the best ice cream and where the sunset would be the most beautiful. But we moved anyway, and a year and a half later, this grove of trees is my favorite place. Dad hung a big swing on an Ash tree just outside my bedroom door. There is a flowering Crab Apple beside it. The trails ribbon their way through Ash, Maple, and Oak trees to the corn and bean fields beyond. People always say our house feels like a haven. And it's true. Hidden from the busy world, nestled into an Eden of climbing ivy, ferns, and forget-me-nots covering the floor, and birds of so many varieties playing in the branches above. I clung to its beauty like my life depended upon it. For in some ways my life did depend on it. I was a broken confused and hurting woman crying out to a God I did not understand and who I felt scared of. 

December of last year was the beginning of an unmaking. A ruthless destroying process. My relationship ended abruptly. In January, with the anniversary of my uncle Peter's death a few days away, I woke up to news that absolutely obliterated my heart. Nothing will ever prepare you for losing one of your closest friends to homicide. In February, two friendships that I cherished ended, and now that it's March, my cynicism loudly and clearly declared that "nothing shall ever vex me again." (Mrs. Bennet) 2022 has been absolutely ruthless. And salt to the wound is the words clearly spoken over me at the beginning of this year, "This is your year of Hope." 

Now, I didn't open with a rendition on trees for no reason. Last summer it became an unfortunate reality that most of the Ash trees in our little grove were dead or dying. Several months ago, during a wind storm, several of the dead trees blew over, dangerously close to the house, so dad decided it was time for them to come down. I was dreading and avoiding the thought of the day for a long time. But nothing prepared me for the wave of grief that hit me when I came home from work one day and found every tree in our front yard haphazardly strewn onto a messy pile. I went through all of the stages. Denial. Anger. Tears. If I had the energy I would have marched out and throttled Enoch. (I'm not joking, his name really is Enoch) However deep my grief, I knew he wasn't to blame. I know this is going to sound completely juvenile, but I wanted to blame God. He was, after all, the One behind everything that had gone wrong. I'd been blaming him for everything, what's one more thing? People said the most unhelpful things, such as "In a few years you'll be glad the dead trees are gone" and "stop being so dramatic, they're just trees." 

See, every time I looked out at the piles and piles of brush strewn everywhere it reminded me too painfully of life. Of my life. Of the world at large. I so desperately want to believe in goodness and love and hope, and yet at every turn, there is crashing and burning. Trees are creations that remind me most of God. Steady through the ages, solid and sure. And yet, if one day of hacking can reduce an entire grove to a pile of brush, how can I be so sure God isn't going to leave? I know the answer to all of this in my head and I can already hear some of you saying "God isn't a tree, dumb dumb." But after months and months of grief and pain and turmoil and the questions that you scream at God are met with silence, you begin to wonder. Last night there was something I wanted to ask God, but I told him in a rather small voice, "I don't know what questions to ask you anymore, because you don't answer." I kick and yell and tell God to go away and stop ruining my life, at the same time knowing it is the last thing I want him to do. I just want my friends back. I want my trees back. I'm tired of devastation and demolition and ruin and grief. But God is silent. As silent as the middle of the forest in February. And Enoch comes and cuts down the trees. And my grief swallows me whole. And it rains and snows and people pack up and leave. And God is still silent. 

Where is this hope coming from?