I stood inside a tree today. Yes, inside of a tree, and not just any tree but a gargantuan Cottonwood. I do not know the age of the tree exactly, but it looked as if it could have been at least 150 years old. There was still life throughout this tree as its offspring had grown up through their father’s root system, inside its woody caverns, and out towards the food of the sun. As I stepped inside of its hollowed bowels, I was greeted by a soft foot mat of woody fiber. The air was significantly cooler than the air outside, as the large cottonwood soaked in the cool air from last night and breathed it out today. I looked up and realized this organic shelter lacked a roof. I could see the blue sky above, and the little sunlight allowed just enough light to bring out the stoic texture within. I also noticed that inside, sound was dampened. I could still hear the outside, but only subtly. What I could hear in great magnitude was the beat of my heart, and my breath in and out. I sensed as though the tree and I shared a certain intimacy. This large friend of mine had created silence for me so that I could listen to the very breath that sustains me, and perhaps he could listen too. As I stopped my breath for a moment I realized that someone else was speaking. This large hollowed out tree was creating a faint tone of something like a pipe organ. As the wind and other waves of sound outside passed over its opening above, this tree was reverberating it into his own. It then occurred to me that this tree has been listening all along. Has it heard the language of Native Americans, what about the voice of those early Dutch settlers in this area, did he make sense of their words?

As I reflected on the days that he has seen, and the people whom he may have encountered, I begin to hear the things outside; An ambulance in the distance, the passing cars, and the airplane flying over head. As all these sounds break into the silence within, I realize that I am not the only one hearing them. This deep tone made by the Cottonwood now made sense to me. My ancient brother is not singing, or celebrating, but what I hear is a deep groan. Saint Paul writes to the church in Rome that “all of creation is groaning” for redemption and things made right. While I have often forgotten to groan for the sake of creation’s fall, this landmark in the middle of the woods groans and has been groaning all along for our hurt as well as his. As I continued to listen to this deep groan of mourning, I begin to groan as well. When Adam bit the apple we all suffered, in this fallen world sadness has crept into ever fabric of life. We as creatures of God should groan together, but we as creatures of Christ should also rejoice in the day that groaning will be no more, and the hymns declared by the cottonwood will only be hymns of praise.

Keep groaning for me O Cottonwood, and I will groan for you.
As the saints pray for me, pray for my fallen state O brother.
For our God is good and He hears our groans, let us rejoice in the midst of our cries.