They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor (Isaiah 61:3).
The window of my bedroom looks out onto a towering oak tree. It spreads tall and wide across my line of sight, displaying its massive splendor in every season. It takes me back, back to the story of another towering oak...
I have always loved trees, but growing up, I only knew about oaks from books. The trees that filled every space of my early years—the ones that swish and bend and weave through my memories—are tropical and tenacious, lush and luxuriant, verdant and vigorous.
Both participant and witness, they grace every chapter of my story, lending color, richness, constancy, and familiarity. They branch and leaf and blossom in their own style, yet blend and grow together into a full landscape of coordinated color, and order, and alignment.
First were the cocoa and coffee trees found at the top of our dirt walkway. I knew in them a tangible link to the one side of our ancestry. They whispered their secrets into the Trade Winds—secrets brought from Madeira with the Portuguese ancestors—but we were too young, and too careless to listen. We only paid attention to a few of the “quirks,” wondering why the old folks put salt in their coffee or dipped their bread in oil.
In time the cocoa and coffee trees became our unofficial "registry" for birth and belonging— generations of umbilical cords buried under their roots signified rights, and connection, and union with the surroundings. It wasn't just cocoa or coffee trees— all around the island the indisputable claim to citizenship had become codified in the practice of "planting" umbilical cords, and the phrase “navel string bury right here” evoked all the rights of the native-born. And the trees bore witness.
Closer to the main entrance to our property, the tall palm tree waved nonchalantly in the breeze, unruffled even in the occasional tropical storm, when it simply bowed and danced to the rhythm of the wind. But the serenely waving hands and the slender, pliant trunk hid scores of memories from casual sight.
So if I were to ever hear a sudden snicker escaping from the palm into the rustling breeze, I, too, would smile at the memory of justice well-earned when our dog climbed halfway up its smooth limbs in pursuit of the neighborhood boy who teased him mercilessly and endlessly.
Farther down in the “hollah” below our house, the palm tree’s coconut cousins towered against the landscape, interspersed with banana plants or suckers. And a little closer, at different intervals before the beginning of “hollah,” stood the orange tree, the avocado tree, and later, the Bequia plum tree.
I wish I could tell all the stories of the trees—the guava tree in the middle of the garden from which I watched in five-year-old wonder as the midwife came and went, leaving behind a new little sister; the breadfruit tree we called “White Tree” that left two of my cousins stranded in its limbs, and one of them with a broken bone.
And all around, in the neighbors’ yards and throughout the village, the story of the trees was a story of their bounty and abundance—of the mangoes, and plums, and a million varieties of tropical fruit. It was a story of shade and protection. And it was the story of community and utility—"barfle" (silk cotton) for pillows, shak-shaks for instruments, calabashes for containers, cedar and pine for coffins.
But there was the story of another tree—one I had always known, but couldn't yet name. Until finally I understood its description in a passage written by the prophet Isaiah: They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor (Isaiah 61:3). And I was finally able to trace the towering oak in my mother's spiritual silhouette.
It wasn't that she was perfect—a fact that gives me great encouragement, and a huge dependence on grace as I deal with my own litany of imperfections. It was the incredible witness she bore to the Year of the Lord's Favor (Isaiah 61:1-3) as she wrestled—sometimes successfully, other times not—with captivity, poverty, broken-heartedness, mourning and grief. And ashes, lots of ashes. And yes, seasons of darkness and despair.
Yet she held to an unshakeable trust in a Savior who had promised freedom, release, comfort, beauty, joy and praise. Armed with faith, she spread her branches tall and wide across my line of sight, displaying the splendor of God, and the oil of joy in every season. Even the most difficult ones.
Right now it is spring, and the towering oak tree in my yard is alive and imposing, with beautiful leaves of vibrant green. But in the fall, the leaves will turn gorgeous shades of yellow and brown, and every hue in between. Shortly after, they will cascade into dead piles that require the tedious work of raking and dragging away.
Yet it is in this season of shedding and removal that the acorns fall, holding stores of food for small creatures for the winter, and stores of promise for rebirth in the spring. And the falling and the raking aid and facilitate the process.
I think of the parallels in my mother's life and legacy. I am thankful for all that came from the towering branches of her love and faith—bounty, abundance, shade, protection, utility.
And yes, I am thankful even for the dead and yellowed leaves of the autumn seasons—for in the inevitable raking, I find acorns of renewal and regeneration—food for my winters and promise for my springs. A God-given cycle of new plantings of the Lord for the display of His splendor.
