The steward of the hope-filled trees

McKenna Snow
MSMU Class of 2023

(4/2023) For the longest time, trees in the wintertime were one of my least favorite sights. In taking a drive through the mountains, there was little variety to behold through the window. The landscape was a grey-brown, like the land had fallen asleep, and for a great distance all the eye could really notice was the empty limbs. The tree trunks were devoid of squirrels playing, signaling that there is a great hush over all the natural world.

It took me a long time to learn how to appreciate the winter, and the empty trees. I didn’t want to forever blame my more annoyed winter moods on the grey trees (which really was a temptation for me), but I wasn’t sure how to go about reconciling their barrenness with their goodness even in the wintertime.

What helped me see the empty trees differently was attending Mass during Lent last year in the glass chapel at the national grotto (which I can walk to from the Mount). Attending Mass in this chapel is especially beautiful because of the window-walls that have a cover of trees outside them, since the chapel sits on the mountainside. The difficult part of this interior design, however, is that in the winter, the outside view is that sight I struggle with—the barrenness, the grey.

But during Lent, I noticed that the interior of the chapel actually matched quite well with its exterior; there were few flowers, if any, and getting into the later weeks of Lent the statues and images were all covered with purple cloth. All the beauty of the chapel, hidden.

I am inclined to think that outside of these penitential seasons, beauty within a chapel is extremely helpful for lifting our hearts and minds in prayer. But here at this quiet, daily Mass with a few scattered people in the pews, I encountered encouragement in the spiritual wilderness of Lent in a very tangible way. There was a moment when barrenness and fruitfulness collided. It was time to receive the Eucharist, and I was walking down the center of the chapel, trying to pray. There was a sister singing the communion hymn alone, and since it was a weekday Mass, there were no instruments. I listened to her sing, saw the covered statues, and the empty trees outside.

But then I believed. I wasn’t there for the glamor of what exterior sights could offer. I was there for Jesus, hidden and yet fully present in the Eucharist. I was there to receive Him, to deepen my relationship with Him, and to receive the abundant graces He was there to offer me. As this moment of faith washed over me, the desert wasn’t so dry. Though I was miles out in the spiritual desert of Lent, and far into winter, both offered an environment to encounter the God of hope, and to see His creation in a new way.

Now, I think that human beings are unique in that we are both body and soul, which means that we have both physical and spiritual needs. So here was the wonderfulness of God in light of this reality: He was meeting me there, in the emptiness, to fill my spiritual needs, but He was also meeting me there to help heal my physical needs and my relationship with His creation. I began to understand the barrenness of those trees better after that. They are a signpost of hope, of waiting for the springtime that is to come. They convey a deeper reality about the interconnectedness of all nature and human life. They are signs of the resilience and brilliance of nature, which knows how to survive in even the harshest Maryland winters. How incredible these trees are, and how they should inspire us to live! In our seasons of sleeping and of grey, there is still life and hope. But, trees are not only symbolic signs, but real and essential aspects of the environment that continually offer hope to our air, the seasons to come, and to all the creatures. Thus, trees offer hope not only to the future of our physical world; through their testimony of surviving the winter through God’s care, they offer hope to those journeying through the spiritual life.

And from these thoughts about the trees, I have come to learn that God is a holistic healer. He sees the whole human person and calls us to love Him with our whole heart, mind, body, and soul. That means that we can, and must, love Him through loving His creation, especially in the physical world all around us.

That is why I argue that Arbor Day is a great extension of the response to love God with our whole self. We are not just spiritual beings, but body and soul inhabiting this earth God gave us. Arbor Day is celebrated by planting new trees, so as to help the environment and to better our world. So I ask myself: so what if trees are grey half of the year? I have encountered their importance year-round, and know for certain that even in winter, we need them. Trees are crucial for the environment’s health, as well as for our own; it is only fitting that we respond to caring for the environment by giving back more trees than we have taken away for our human needs. The use of trees can be a regenerative relationship if it is regulated properly, and if the local community enthusiastically pitches in to giving back.

When I was little, my mom taught me to pick up trash when I could because "littering doesn’t take care of God’s world." She taught me on this small level to be a good steward of the earth, and to see that even the little efforts make differences in caring for it. I believe that caring for the earth through not only removing trash but adding trees is much more holistic approach to caring for the earth. Let us not only remove that which would poison the natural world, but let us contribute intentionally to its flourishing, acknowledging the crucial role trees play in ecosystems. We are the stewards of this earth; and we can impact the earth’s health deeply, even if it is through the planting of a single tree.