If I were God, sometimes I’d perch in a tree and preen. I’d listen to stories from squirrels and songs from the wind, and I’d watch everything. I could seek the warmth or shun it as I pleased, venturing out on limbs or curling against the tree’s bosom to bask in shade. I could count stars, and I could count the hairs on the head of the girl standing at the base of the tree, studying the distance between the highest reach of her arm and the lowest hanging branch.
I am not God, but I seek God in trees and birds. I fold the page in my book, and close it. I leave it among the roots for safe-keeping, and I jump, brushing my fingertips against the lowest branch. The bark scrapes against my fingertips, but I don’t mind. Sometimes layers need to be scraped away before we can feel. I can get into the tree if I jump high enough, if I am strong enough. I jump again, arms outstretched, and the wind caresses my ears.
“My dear child, you need not leap and struggle to reach me, for I am here.”
The voice is on the wind, in the trees, from the clouds, in the earth. It is deep, and it is gentle, and there is music in it. I drop my arms. I study the flicker of wings among the branches and how light breaks through the gaps in the leaves. “I imagined I could meet you in the tree,” I say. “And if you were not there, I could see from above.”
A laugh arises in a sudden intensifying of the gentle breeze, rustling flowers and branches and birdsong. The laugh is kind, indulgent. “You may meet me in the tree, for I do reside there.”
The branch moves, reaching for me. I can grab it without straining before it stills. I remember the tricks I did on the monkey bars before I had the good sense to be afraid; up into the branch I swing. Wind plays in my hair long after I steady myself on the sturdy limb. I swing my legs, and I laugh.
“I am not the tree, but I am here.” The voice is smiling, and it comes from everywhere without deafening. Because this tree is old, its trunk is thick and round, and its branches are strong. I lean against the trunk, and curl my legs close, gripping a branch above me. I look down, and I am higher than I was but I am not afraid.
“I have lived on this earth since first I breathed it to life. Many creatures take shelter in my branches, my leaves, my shade. The lovely sun shines and in turn, I breathe. I give life. My roots spread deep, into the dark and wet earth, and I withstand tempests. I create. I grow. I sustain. I protect.”
I trace the branch I sit on with my scraped finger, following a trail of shoots and leaves. “You are like the tree.”
“Yes, my child, I am like the tree.”
“I am not a child anymore, but I still long to climb. Sometimes I cannot reach. Sometimes I feel silly. But always I wish I could sit here and be with you.”
Leaves rustle. “I am with you always. There is nowhere you may be apart from me or my love for you.”
I smile. I know this, but to hear it is a different thing. I laugh, because it feels like just the right response. “I know you are not only in the tree. I know this. You do not live only in the tree in the same way you do not reside behind the veil of the holy of holies. You are not contained within the ark, or the pillar of cloud, or the burning bush. You are moving and staying in all places. You are like the wind.” As I say it, the breeze tickles my cheek. The day is warm, and the brush of air delights me. From my branch I can see across the lands. I can see houses and people milling among them. I can see cities on hills, and forests lining the mountains on the horizon. I can see the reflection of my legs dangling in the clear waters below. I can see the smiles and hear the timbre of voices passing among the people, and everything I see and hear and feel is lovely.
“I hovered over the waters in the beginning. I breathed life into the first human. I danced in tongues of flames over the believers at Pentecost and I alighted on the Chosen One as a dove. I part seas and whisper in children’s ears and inspire poets. I am present in stillness, present in movement. When I move, you can see. You can hear. I am. I comfort and listen. I speak and move. I am like the wind.”
Despite the tree supporting me, and the wind caressing me. I sense that I am missing something. I know I cannot hope to see all of God, but yet I have not glimpsed one of God’s truest images today.
“You are like the tree, and like the wind. But these you did not make in your image.”
“No child. Come down from the sky. Come to the water. I will show you.”
The ground is close, like it should be. I hang for a moment, then let myself drop. I feel the breeze swirly around me as I approach the water. When my toes are close, everything stills. The water becomes glass, and I can trace the outline of my tree in the reflection.
“Look into the water, child.”
An image of a man appears, a gentle-faced, sharp-eyed man with olive skin and calloused hands. I smile. I have never seen him but I recognize him immediately for he has been my friend and guide since I was a child. There is love in his eyes and in my heart.
“Yes. Jesus. They call him Your son, the Word, the perfect picture of you within a person. I know his face though I’ve never seen it.”
“You are right to know he is a part of me. I love him. I am within him. I sent him to bring the good news.”
“Then I have seen as much of you as I can today, have I not?”
The response is a laugh again, but this one is sadder, softer. I can see the limbs of my tree droop in the reflection. Even the face of Christ appears wistful for a moment.
“No, my child. I bade you to look into the water, and there you will see my image. Be still and look upon it.”
I feel confused, even afraid, but I look. The gentle and strong figure of Jesus shimmers as ripples cover the surface. But as time passes, the water stills again, and I am gazing into my own eyes.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. I can see the creases that form on my own brow. I want to use my finger to brush them away, but my hand is shaking. I don’t want to disturb the water.
“My dear one, I did not give the tree or the bird or the wind my own image. I gave it to you, child. Do you not see your own beauty? The spark of the divine dwells in your heart. Your eyes seek beauty and notice heartache. Your hands reach out to create, to embrace, to explore. Your arms cradle babies and climb trees. Your legs are strong, and they dance. Your ears hear the cries of your family and the laughter of your friends. Your emotions play on your face for all to see. Your feet carry you for miles, or hold you up for hours. Within your body pulses your life and the potential for more life. You are fearfully and wonderfully made, and you are my image. I reside inside you as I reside in the tree and on the breeze. When your lips form kind words, when your mind is open, when your heart is full of love or righteous indignation or curiosity, then Jesus dwells there for all to see.”
In the water, I can see my smile. The shimmering of the sun behind me puts light in my eyes, and plays on the surface of my tears. I wrap my arms around myself, close my eyes, and feel. I feel my heartbeat, the water swirling around my toes, and the sun warming the back of my neck. I feel wind in my hair, and the little sting from my scraped hands. I feel the thrill of being in the tree, and the longing I have to return home to the people I cherish. Yet, I am not alone.
“My image is within them, too, child, and all people. When you are ready, you must go from this place and help them find it. I will be with you, as I am always.
I linger, just long enough for a bird song. Then I open my eyes, smile at my reflection, and journey home.
