Of Oaks & Men
A small voice broke the silence with a question, “Mordor, Gandalf, is it left or right?” Frodo’s words, whispered as they were, seemed to be snatched up by the wilderness around him. As Frodo spoke, his cloaked form began to slowly lead the company from the gates of Rivendell in the gathering light. The journey’s end is of little present concern to Frodo, for there is much road that lies between here and home. For the moment, his question is simple - “left or right?”
In the pale light of a new day dawning, another voice could suddenly be heard - soft, strong, and sure. “Left”, answered Gandalf with calm assurance as though he had walked this very road before. His large hand steadied itself on Frodo's shoulder, guiding his path to the left.
—
I look to the right and I see a road paved with grand cobblestones, innumerable in number. These stones carry a winding pathway beyond the bend of an ancient oak - the path is wide, well-worn, and crowded. The oaks begin to grow in company as the road goes ever on; countless trees stand as sentinels of a past age upon the lip of the road, each adorned with the flame and flicker of fall upon their leaves. Though, many of their leaves have fallen, and many are falling still. The road to the right is carpeted with leaves of red, orange, yellow, and auburn, as though the very path were consumed with flame.
The road flows like a river through the midst of the forest, ebbing to and fro, ever sloping downwards - sloping gradually, imperceptibly, decidedly. As the road bows ever downwards, a chill begins to sweep through the air; the warmth of summer in this part of the forest has long since faded, and the flame of autumn has been all but snuffed out - the dark of winter approaches, and a mist lays upon the furthest reaches of the land. Further down, dead and dying oaks innumerable litter the road; hollow husks of the saplings they once were, far from the tender hands of the Gardener’s pruning.
Suddenly, the road to the left beckons me. I turn my face from the gathering dread of the road to the right towards the path that lies on my left. The road is not clothed in fair cobblestone; it is a harsh, uneven, and narrower path tangled with the roots and brambles of oaks far more ancient than those of the right.
The journey to the left is cloaked with the shadows of nightfall, broken now and again by sunlight and starlight as it makes its way past the broken branches of those timeless oaks. These oaks are solid and steadfast. Bruised, bent, and beaten as they may be, they yet blossom. Ages of wandering in the shadows and whispers of the forest have not robbed them of their many leaves - for their roots are dug deep, immovable.
There is one oak - the grandest of them all - that catches my eye as I proceed along this leftward path. Only, despite his grandeur, this oak is now alone; around him lay the splintered stumps of his friends that left him many winters ago, leaving him to wander the years ahead in solace. He is battered and alone in a forest that no longer remembers his name, living among young saplings that do not rightly appreciate his great height as it towers above them. Nonetheless, he aches outwards and upwards with his remaining branches - broken by the wind as they are - towards the heavens. Aching with all his might for that wood beyond the world, yet ever faithful and firm here below until he is told otherwise. For though he longs for home, he is sure to keep his branches, like wings, outwards as well as upwards, overshadowing those young saplings under his shadow.
There are other trees in the forest as well, many others. These oaks bear fruit in and out of season, drinking deeply from the streams of water that run along their roots. Whether in the scorching and suffocating heat of summer, or in the desolate waste of winter, their leaves remain. And when their leaves do begin to wrinkle and fall, they do not spurn the gentle hands of the Gardener who is ever at work in the forest - rather, they let Him prune as He desires, for His heart is that they bear fruit, and much of it.
Though this road is narrow and filled with many unexpected turns, I yet feel the strength of One who is mightier than I upon my shoulder, beckoning me onwards, upwards, and to the left. The road is not crowded, but it is by no means empty. I catch the patter of feet behind me, and the rumbling of pots and pans upon the backs of my fellow travelers - my brothers and sisters, my fellow pilgrims, my friends.
—
We are wandering through a forest that is at odds with ourselves. We see the other trees, the beauty of the wildlife, and the glory of the rolling hills and we recognize them as lovely, and rightly so. Yet, the hearts of oaks and men groan for something more. A world destined for decay, with its harsh winters and heavy winds, serves to untether us from any allure it may have had when we were but saplings. The trees of this world, our Father’s world, cast long shadows to the foot of that wood beyond this world - our home.
To take up residence in this world with any sense of permanence is to pitch your tent among the shifting shadows of nightfall. Strive with all your might then, regardless of the soul’s aching, to press onwards. Firmly planted not in this world, or its comforts, but in Him - the One who planted you where you now find yourself.
The forest around you will begin to change; the sense of home and comfort you once drew from those quiet hills and trickling brooks may even become cold and strange. The whisper of the wind among the leaves of friends you knew for many long years will one day cease, leaving the forest a much quieter place than you remembered it, or ever thought possible. The bark upon your trunk may begin to grow brittle, the strength of your bones may wane, but the roots you dug long ago in the dawn of your youth will stand, firmly planted in the palms of Him who has raised every lily of the field, oak in the forest, and star in the cosmos. Though the ages may have waned against you, though the wind blew vehemently for many long nights, you will yet stand, endure, and make it safely home because of Him.
Photo by Johannes Plenio, Unsplash
Comments