There is a paved track nearby that I’ve pounded countless miles on throughout the years we’ve lived here. Slow strolls pushing baby strollers, sweaty runs, and walks made quicker by emotional rants with girlfriends over life’s complexities. It winds gently around the edge of a lake, with trees shading the majority of the path. As I made my way around the trail last week, I found my eye constantly drawn to the pale, peeling trunk of a certain tree. Tall, slender Georgia pines make up a large portion of the population, along with some stately maples, oaks, and scrappy dogwoods. But my eyes searched the trunks and felt affection every time I found another thick, solid trunk with a falling apart face.
Sycamore? a foggy memory from my childhood heard my grandfather teach me. A quick google search confirmed it, Sycamore were my beloved trees. I didn’t know I had a favorite tree, but this isn’t entirely surprising given my deep affection for Anne Shirley and our many similar tendencies.
My thoughts wandered as they’re prone to do when I run, and I found myself chasing my own thoughts. Why do you like this tree more than the others? What is it that calls to you here? My eyes followed the graceful arch upwards, starting with a sturdy thick base and then changing to a smooth pale surface with patches of bark falling away as it rose to the sky. My breath caught in my throat and tears welled up as I thought, that’s it. That’s how I feel.
I don’t mind getting older. Sure, I spend more time applying sunscreen and thinking about the future. But I’ve liked the emotional and spiritual maturity that comes with each passing year. Each trip around the sun brings a little more clarity and faith, something I can always stand to gain. The past few years have been the most joy-filled days I’ve known thus far.
But they’ve also hurt.
With motherhood and marriage and entering ministry as a family, it feels like each year is like sand on my skin. Just when I think I’ve sufficiently learned a lesson, here comes another season that brings humility and refinement. This is a treasure and for my good. Yet the sting of the process remains.
“The bark of all trees has to yield to a growing trunk by stretching, splitting, or infilling. The sycamore shows the process more openly than many other trees. The explanation is found in the rigid texture of the bark tissue which lacks the elasticity of the bark of some other trees, so it is incapable of stretching to accommodate the growth of the wood underneath, so the tree sloughs it off.” Harriet Keeler
A sturdy, solid foundation drawing water from deep beneath the earth.
A rigid outer texture lacking the elasticity for neat, tidy growth.
A falling away of the outer layer, leaving being a raw and vulnerable surface.
A determined rising up higher towards home.
Oh Sycamore, I can relate. So I continue on the trail keeping my eyes wide for the next glimpse of you, and I’ll rejoice in this being-made-new process.
To this I hold, my hope is only Jesus
For my life is wholly bound to His
Oh how strange and divine,
I can sing: all is mine!
Yet not I, but through Christ in me
The night is dark but I am not forsaken
For by my side, the Saviour He will stay
I labour on in weakness and rejoicing
For in my need, His power is displayed
willing hands 
I was so thrilled to see your new post! You have such a gift! Thank you for sharing this gift with us. We love you and your sweet family!