Niederwalded

There is this big, beautiful forest behind the hotel we are calling "home" for now. Within this forest is a wonderful wooded running trail I have already claimed as my own. Husband told me each tree in (my) forest on base is tagged. Apparently the land is protected and Germany is all about keeping close tabs on the trees within protected land. To this I say, "Yay Germany!" 

However, a section of the forest has been chopped down. I'm not sure why exactly, but at least a football fields worth of trees along my running route have been recently removed, leaving an empty, sad looking lot. Hundreds of stumps still remain in the ground as if they have lost everything and are unable to go after it.

The first time I ran alongside this apparent travesty, this tree graveyard, I cried. No joke, real tears. Geographical relocation makes me spontaneously emotional. As do dead trees. Through my tears and sweat I found myself silently whispering to the stumps, "I am crying with you because I too have just been clear cut."

Moving and total life upheaval feels to me like a wide scale chopping down. Each sad good-bye might as well have been said with a loud and mournful "Timber!" For when the bags are packed and all is said and done I am left feeling a lot like a leveled forest. What used to be a tall, full, green and thriving forest of a life and community is now a brown and barren lot with only the stumps as reminders of what used to be.

But the stumps only tell half of the story. Underneath all the good-byes remains a system of hidden roots. Healthy, resilient, life giving roots. Roots that have been created to seek light. Roots that will do everything in their power to push upwards attempting to grow again. For every newly cut tree and sad looking stump there lies below a potential for new life. A stump symbolizes both death and the opportunity for a new beginning.  Because sometimes the roots of a chopped tree make it back up to the surface. Sometimes roots find light again... 

Tree people (do we call them botanists?), they call this a "shoot."

A whole new baby forest can grow from a completely leveled old forest. Tree people often do it on purpose, they call it coppicing. Coppicing is the intentional cutting down of old trees to make room for new trees. Usually it is done with the intent to make use of the fact that some trees grow quickly- thus allowing for faster harvesting of new wood. Turns out coppicing is a common and established (think, ancient) practice here in Europe. Germany in particular has its own fun word for it, "Niederwald." (If saying Niederwald doesn’t make you happy, what will?)

 I think it is fair to say I have been "Niederwald-ed." This is the military life. You grow as best you can, as tall and strong and interconnected as possible wherever you have been relocated to- knowing full well you will be clear cut again. But you trust the process, you trust that if you seek the light, soak up the water and push through, relying on the hidden root system that has yet to fail you- a new forest will grow. You can't rush this growth, you can't force it, you can't deny the fact that it hurts. It is equal part devastating and exciting.

Anne Lammot says every great truth creates a paradox. I believe her. I can't have beautiful new growth without some form of a painful death. The trick it seems is holding fast to my hope. Trusting with time, love and care, new shoots will emerge.

The problem is when all has been leveled and cut, it hurts and the pain makes me want to hide. I want to cover the stumps under my big blanket and cry. I want to nurse the injustice of it all. I want to be angry and retreat to my own dark corner of indignation. This is mourning. It is part of grief. What I found to be true though is some of those tears are necessary for regrowth. Some of those tears water and soften the ground. Tears can help nourish the roots pushing up, the hidden roots that are reaching out ready to emerge as shoots. The reality is, feeling the sad and angry and lonely parts of a clear cut are necessary for the regrowth.

Tears won't destroy shoots, however darkness will kill a system of roots every time. In the absence of light roots will wither and die. This is where openness comes in. Openness to light, to regrowth. Openness to new people, places, adventures and relationships. Openness to failing, openness to trying, openness to making a complete and utter fool of yourself. Openness to the pain and inconvenience of the whole messy, imperfect process.

Perhaps my favorite way to define faith is simply an openness to possibility. The Bible verse that comes to mind as I ponder this is from Jesus to his disciples, "I am the Vine, you are the branches. When you're joined with me and I with you, the relation intimate and organic, the harvest is sure to be abundant. Separated you can't produce a thing." John 15:5 The Message.

This is my faith. I am holding fast to all the possibility that comes from my clear cut forest. For it seems to me it is the unwavering hope in the possibility of regrowth which will maintain openness. Openness amidst the random tears and the unpredictably tricky grief/elation cycles and the messy, clumsy first encounters of each potential new relationship and opportunity.

Sidenote: Because let me tell you, rebuilding community is scary awkward, no matter how outgoing one may be. I have begun to make a game out of listing all the ridiculous one liners I have led with when meeting a new person I might hope will like me someday. 

After my run I went back to take a picture, not of the clear cut forest, for that is a new story, yet to unfold. I can't yet see or photograph what will happen to the hidden roots fighting to survive. Instead I stopped to take a picture of the neatly piled, freshly chopped trees. The rings of their trunk telling a story of years where they survived and thrived. This is where I find my hope. For it is in the looking back, in the seeing of God's provision every step of my life thus far that I am reminded He is good. And He is trustworthy. And I can be open to this process of regrowth because I am safe and loved. 

Old roots and new shoots, they aren't worried about growing, they just do what they were created to do: keep on pushing upwards seeking the light. I like that philosophy, I think I shall claim it as my own.

"Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the LORD your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you."

Deuteronomy 31:6