
In my childhood backyard, three magnolia trees stood sentinel, casting their shade and secrets into the world. I climbed them with a sense of wonder that children feel more so than adults. They were companions, steady and strong, with thick branches that both held me up and kept me grounded. As I grew older, they became a memory I yearned for, a lost anchor in the chaos of life. Now, when I meditate, I sometimes close my eyes and summon them back: I sit beneath their sprawling limbs, enveloped in the scent of their waxen flowers, the feel of their smooth, thick petals lingering on my fingers. In this space, time slows, the world quiets. I breathe deeply, and for a moment, I remember what it means to truly “be.”
Trees, more than almost anything in nature, embody rootedness. Their roots plunge deep into the earth, far beyond what the eye sees, while their branches stretch toward the sky with reckless grace. They endure tempests that would break lesser things and stand in a kind of annual death-and-resurrection cycle, shedding leaves only to come back more vibrant than before. Their quiet endurance feels almost celestial, as though they are both guardians and participants in life’s great mystery. And they carry stories! The magnolia, for instance, doesn’t just stand tall; it symbolizes nobility, resilience, healing. It thrives where other life falters, offering its bark as medicine and its spirit as a lesson in grace under pressure.
Last summer, I stood under the sprawling limbs of the Angel Oak Tree in Charleston, South Carolina, and marveled at its magnificence. Over 400 years old, this ancient giant’s gnarled branches stretch out like fingers of wisdom, offering nearly 17,000 square feet of shade. Its trunk, a symbol of endurance, measures over 31 feet in circumference. This tree, ancient and wise, has outlasted generations. It has seen things we can scarcely imagine. It bears witness to time’s passage in a way that humbles us. We are allowed to stand in its presence but must follow strict rules to protect it—no climbing, no sitting, no setting down our food or drink under its hallowed branches. I stayed there for hours, basking in its quiet strength. When I left, I took a painting of it home with me, but I had also taken something far deeper: a piece of its tranquility, a fragment of its spirit.
Trees are more than part of the landscape; they are woven into the very fabric of sacred texts. In the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament, trees appear in some of the most profound moments—think of the Tree of Knowledge in Eden, the tree (i.e., cross) upon which Christ died, or the Tree of Life in Revelation. Trees are more than mere metaphor; they are participants in the grand narrative of salvation, present in creation, reconciliation, and redemption.
Consider the first Psalm, a poem of profound wisdom: “They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither.” It’s a promise that when we are rooted in something greater than ourselves, when we align with God’s will and ways, we will thrive like trees by the water. We will bear fruit. We will offer shade. We will simply “be” what we were always meant to be: sources of life, strength, and nourishment for others.
Modern science, fascinatingly enough, is only now catching up to the sacred wisdom about trees. As Megan van Deusen, Nature Educator at Mount Olivet Conference & Retreat Center, reminds us in her recent blog, the research of Suzanne Simard on trees paints a picture that aligns deeply with scripture’s portrayal of them. Simard’s work, particularly her groundbreaking book Finding the Mother Tree, reveals the hidden world beneath our feet, a “wood-wide web” of interdependence. Through this underground network, trees communicate, share nutrients, and even warn each other of danger. They don’t compete—they collaborate. When one tree falters, others lend their strength. They are not just givers of life but sustainers of it, even in death.
Mother trees, the elders of the forest, are key. Connected to hundreds of other trees, they act as nurturers, ensuring the survival of the young by sacrificing their own growth if needed. This isn’t just about survival; it’s about thriving as a community. These trees teach us that life isn’t a zero-sum game. It’s about mutual nourishment, shared strength, and a deep, quiet wisdom passed down through generations.
And so, this Fall, as the leaves turn to fire and drift slowly to the ground, perhaps we, too, can look to the trees for guidance. What might happen if we reflected on their resilience, their interconnectedness, their quiet, enduring wisdom?
We might embrace the wisdom of rootedness. Like the trees, we can ground ourselves in something larger than the shifting winds of daily life and the cacophony of social media. We can root ourselves in practices that nourish our spirits—meditation, prayer, moments of stillness. When we are rooted, the storms that rage around us lose their power to snap us in half.
We might nurture community. Trees remind us that we don’t thrive alone. We are part of a greater network, and our strength often lies in those quiet, unseen connections. This Fall, consider how you might nurture the relationships in your life—whether through acts of service, deep conversations, or simply offering presence.
We might let go and be renewed. Trees shed their leaves without fear, trusting in the cycle of death and rebirth. As Autumn deepens, what might you need to let go of in order to experience renewal? In spiritual life, as in nature, there is beauty in the letting go.
This season, may the trees be our teachers, showing us the way to live with strength, grace, and deep, enduring wisdom.
Such a beautiful image you gave me this morning. And so well written. Thank you.
Theresa
Your article on trees is so interesting as is
all your writing. Lovely to read!
Thank you, Meri! Hope you can come and enjoy the trees at the Retreat Center before too long!
Thank you, Carol, and thank you for helping us take care of the grounds and trees here at the Conference & Retreat Center!
Wow!
This is so interesting with so much depth. You are a wonderful writer. You need to write another book and devote it to trees.
Rick Dahlin