a pruning parable
faux freedom, real doom
For somewhere between eighty and one hundred years, a pair of mighty, beautiful, ginormous oaks stood in the front yard of what is now my home. For decades, their trunks added ring after ring after ring as their roots anchored down and their arms stretched toward the sun.
I really loved my trees.
In my journey of tech-escapism, I’d worked to develop the habit of starting the day with my trees instead of my phone. I’d step outside and look up into the canopy criss-crossing the sky—sometimes a contrast of green, lush leaves shimmering against brilliant blue, sometimes bare branches backed by the hazy gray of winter.
It wasn’t always perfectly executed, but the aim was to do the following every morning before seeing a screen:
Step outside. Usually with a child in tow.
Say, out loud, a paraphrase from one of said child’s books: “Every morning it’s good to say, God I know you love me.”1
Pray the Lord’s Prayer. Let child say, “Amen.”
Ask God to help me be a tree planted in him today.
Out of nowhere last Friday, the thicker of my twin oaks cracked, split, and about a third of it thundered to the ground. Great was the fall of it.
Thankfully, no people/roofs/cars/critters were seriously harmed.2 My husband and I were not home for the devastating moment, but my friend who was babysitting the girls said that it was so loud she thought a car had driven into the house (despite it not hitting the house at all).
I’d estimate it was nearly a 40-foot-long chunk that split off, branches completely blocking the width of the street. It seemed as if all neighbors in a two-mile radius gathered at the scene, as a work crew from the city arrived to chop up the debris and clear the road. I received multiple mourning texts from my streetmates in the aftermath.
By the end of the night, the mess was cleared, but two-thirds of the oak still stood, bearing more than a flesh wound.
We had a few different tree experts come out, and all agreed that there had been some hidden rot that led to the cracking, and now the whole thing needed to come down. One sent this message:
The wound is so big I don't think it could ever heal over. The canopy is now severely unbalanced, and more likely to lose more large limbs...The tree was doomed when it was small and it wasn't pruned. Blessings.
Let’s start by taking a quick second to acknowledge the word choice here. “Never seen ‘blessings’ and ‘doom’ so close,” I texted my husband.
I am very sad to report that we took the advice, and over the past two days our beautiful tree was systematically hacked to pieces by chainsaw-wielding men in harnesses swinging through the branches. It was a violent trapeze act (and probably the dream gig of many young boys).
Once the branches were gone, her stripped—but still mighty—trunk was felled. Finally, her enormous stump was ground into a small mountain of sawdust. It was all very dramatic.
Somewhere, Treebeard is (very slowly) headed my way to call me to account.
So now, here I sit, gazing at the wreckage out my front window.
I invite you to take a quiet moment to honor what was lost (and what cost us a pretty penny).
And then, I ask that you buckle up, my friends, because there is only one thing louder than the crash heard ‘round the street, and that is God telling me that THIS IS A METAPHOR. Let’s dive in.
“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” - John 15:1-2
Let’s revisit Mr. Tree Man’s text: The tree was doomed when it was small and it wasn't pruned.
Pruning is never fun. I am not a tree, but I imagine pruning hurts. The shears are sharp. And yet, anyone worth their salt knows that pruning ultimately leads to flourishing—to a fuller, more fruitful, more lasting life.
Decades and decades ago, previous homeowners either didn’t know or chose not to prune a pair of young, gangly oaks. Maybe my tree thought she was dodging a bullet by avoiding the shears in her youth. But it would ultimately prove a Pyrrhic victory.
When you shirk the pruning shears when you’re young, you get the chainsaw later.
Avoiding the precise, purposeful cuts of a careful arborist may have felt like freedom at first. She sidestepped pain, trial, taming. She grew large and loud, beautiful but untenable. And in the end, this faux freedom led to death.
I won’t pretend these lessons are new, but they are worth remembering—that what looks strong and beautiful may be hiding an interior rot just waiting to be exposed by the next storm.
That left to our own devices, we may grow and expand and stretch our reach widely. Look at me, we think, as we steadily climb 40, 50, 60 feet in the air. I’m the tallest dang tree in this suburb. We can feel powerful, untouchable.
But with greater height comes a greater need for balance, something that only comes through pruning. And the best pruning only comes from someone outside of us, someone wiser, someone who sees the full picture of what we could be and wants to help us get there. Without it, it’s only a matter of time until we’re left to sit in horror as a part of us shears off and comes crashing down.
So here are my proverbs from a felled oak:
Height does not equal health. Reach does not equal rootedness. Age does not make you untouchable. No rot will stay hidden forever. It is better to lose a few limbs when you are young, than to be chopped to pieces by a chainsaw later.
True freedom, true flourishing, true life, comes through yielding to the careful cuts made by Love.
I am sad about my tree. I will miss looking up at her for morning prayer. But in losing my oak, God’s given me a new petition:
Loving Father in Heaven,
Please prune me while I am still small. Don’t let me grow big and beautiful but unbalanced. Don’t let me hide rot that leads to wounds that won’t heal.
Give me a heart that yields to the cuts You see fit to make in my life—painful, yes, but tender. Purposeful. Help me to trust that You are for my flourishing. Give me courage to not shy away from Your shears.
Help me to abide in Your love, to root deep in Your Word, like a tree planted by streams of water. May I draw deeply from You, and care more about my roots than how the world sees my branches. Apart from You I can do nothing. Don’t let me believe the lie that I could maybe do a little bit.
Thank You for my tree. It’s Your tree, really. Thank You for how it pointed me to You in its life and in its death. Praise You that all creation is made to worship, and that the day is coming where “the mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.”3
I am Yours, Lord. Your will be done.
Amen
Okay, maybe like a small bug. Hard to say.
Isaiah 55:12