Connected

It was a gorgeous fall day on Mackinac Island – blue and fortifying.  My husband and I walked a path up a little hill, admiring the marigolds and harassing the seagulls.  We marveled at the perfection of so much of the island, which was clearly under the careful eye of many skilled and passionate gardeners.

A tree near the path caught my attention.  Unlike so much around us, it wasn’t perfect.  One large branch hung down at an unnatural angle, bare bark showing near the top where it used to be firmly attached to the tree.  The leaves were still green, so I surmised that a recent wind or storm had broken the branch from its trunk.  I was saddened to think that it would soon die and be dragged away, leaving the tree incomplete.

Later that day we passed the tree again, this time from the opposite direction.  On impulse, we stopped our walk and tucked ourselves in against the inviting trunk.  I sighed with the pleasure of bark at my back, then took a look around me.  I had parked myself directly below the broken branch.  Its tips nearly brushed the ground.  My eyes traveled up the branch, appreciating its graceful sweep, its odd angle, like a disobedient child leaning down away from its parent’s arms, struggling to be set free.  As I continued to look further up the branch, my admiration turned to puzzlement.  Where the branch met the tree trunk, there was . . . nothing.  No split.  No break.  The branch merged perfectly into the tree, firmly attached, as though it had grown that way.

I got up, brushed the dirt off my rear, and went to investigate.  Around on the other side of the branch, there was brokenness.  But underneath, where nobody could see it, there was a connection.  The branch leaned away from its parent, reached toward the ground, struggling to be set free, but the tree held it fast.  There was no way of telling how long the branch had been going on that way, leaning away, rebelling, seeking to get away . . . but held.  Tightly.  Underneath, where nobody could see.

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We lean away.  Some of us bend just a little bit, then spring back into obedient compliance.  Some of us wave and bounce in a storm, but settle back to stillness and give the tree pleasing shape.  But some of us . . . break.  Hurts too big to be borne weigh us down, push us, pull us, and wrench us away from our tree of life.  We break.

It’s painful to see a broken branch dangling off the tree of God’s family.  We walk past, shaking our heads, sad to see it go, sad to see it unbeautiful.  We are sad to see it die.  But there is no hope for a broken branch.  It cannot be reconnected to the tree.

Sometimes, though, the trunk does not let go.

A loved one has leaned too far.  A son.  A daughter.  A friend.  A storm of hurt has ripped them away from the trunk that gives them life.  From the outside, they are fallen in rebellion, separated beyond repair.  A mother falls to her knees, pleading for the soul of her child.  A daughter hesitates, speaks, holds her tongue, sheds tears at night, praying without words for the softening of her father’s heart.  Hope where there is no hope; the branch is broken.

But underneath, where nobody can see it, the trunk is holding on.

The prayer goes on.  The pleas go up.  And the trunk holds on, giving life in the midst of rebellion.  The tree, which once held a Savior, holds on to the broken.  And it holds on to me.  And it will not, will not, will not let go.