Crooked Trees

"There are three ways you can live life.... 

You can live life as though it's all a cosmic accident; 

we're nothing but an irritating skin disease on the face of the earth. 

Maybe you can live your life as though everything's a bad joke. I can't. 

"Or you can go out at night and look at the stars and think, 

yes, they were created by a prime mover, and so were you, 

but he's aloof perfection, impassible, indifferent to his creation.... 

I can't live that way either.

"Then there's a third way: to live as though you believe that the power 

behind the universe is the power of love, a personal power of love, 

a love so great that all of us really do matter to him.... 

That's the only way I can live."

-Madeleine L'Engle

There falls a seed.

It fell just there, between the lush grass and a patch of rocky, barren ground. Not the most ideal. But it grew anyway, plunging its roots over the years so deep it could never be uprooted, though many manner of forces tried.  It is the colossally stubborn lifeform—a happenstance creation which simply refuses to go away. And when it spreads its branches against all odds it does so in satisfaction.

But also a little crookedly, and a little confusedly. It cannot help it. It was only an accident in the first place. So of course it is a little lopsided and a great deal perplexed, uncertain whether to call itself defeater of the odds or the child robbed of its right to be nurtured.

• ✠

“Here’s a seed,” God says, placing it deep in the fertile ground and then walking away.

He put it just there, right in the place with the best soil. Perfect setup, chosen with deliberation. So of course it grew, straight and tall in a world made for it. And when it stretched its branches it found the air was empty. Carefully created, yes, but never watched over or nurtured. So, even if it never showed on the outside, a deep crack opened in its innards, beneath the bark.

“A God there was,” it sighs, “but is no more.”

And can it call itself any better than its crooked neighbor? That chap at least had gumption and strength. All this tree had was a spoiled beginning and empty end.

“Yes, he cared enough to plant me, but not enough to stick around. So shall I call myself created with care or abandoned without feeling? I wonder what was wrong with me, to be left this way…”

• ✠

“Here’s my seed,” God whispered, pushing dirt over it with gentle and soiled hands.

He planted it right in the rocky place, standing by to watch it grow. The deliberately imperfect stage. So of course it grew crooked, this side thicker than the other. But when it stretched its tired branches God was there watching, patting its trunk and whispering reassurances.

“Here is God,” it mutters, “but why?”

And God does not seem in the habit of directly answering questions. He just keeps bringing water and fertilizer, nurturing the withered, ungrateful shrub.

“Even that crooked accident over there is better than me,” it accuses. God only smiles.

And the little tree kept uttering doubts and questions most its life, not sure whether it was a loved child or unfortunate experiment. The ground hurt its roots and the sun was unbearable. Surely goodness would not have planted it here. And yet God was always there, smiling kindly and whispering reassurances. The tree could not help itself. Between doubts and complaining, it loved its maker anyway, daring to hope.

“It is naïve, probably,” he agreed, when its straight and crooked neighbors criticized, “but I do believe my bit of naivety satisfies me a great deal more than your logic.”

So it learned to smile and kept its place, doubting but content. It never saw what God did—how its stretching branches and deep roots transformed the barren ground about it, making a new world with that single, crooked tree.