Legacy Tree

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Tucked away in a draw on our Montana property stands a Douglas fir that a forester estimated to be more than six hundred years old. It grows beside a creek, sheltered by surrounding hills from the worst of the wind. The draw stretches back toward the forest and up the mountain, while the opposite hillside rises steeply above it.

It's an easy place to linger.

Long before my father-in-law bought this property, others recognized that. Arrowheads and stone tools have been found nearby over the years. With fresh water, shelter from the wind, and a commanding view of the valley, it was a natural place to camp. I sometimes wonder who sat beneath those branches centuries ago.

When friends and family visit, I often take them to see it. Some stare in wonder. Others shrug.

My father-in-law never shrugged. He was so taken with the old fir that he made a simple wooden sign and named it "Legacy Tree." The name has stuck.

Whenever I'm there, I find myself reaching out to touch its weathered trunk.

Sometimes it helps to touch something living that has survived. Six centuries have a way of putting things in perspective.

Standing there, my imagination can't help but wander.

When this tree was still young, Christopher Columbus was trying to persuade Queen Isabella to finance an uncertain voyage across the Atlantic.

While Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the church door in Wittenberg, this tree was quietly adding another ring beneath its bark.

It stood while America's Founders pledged "their Lives, their Fortunes and their sacred Honor."

It was already centuries old before anyone called this land Montana.

Generations passed beneath its branches. Empires rose and fell. Men walked on the moon beneath the same sky that has watched over this tree for more than six centuries.

History hurried by.

The tree simply kept growing.

It has survived fire, summer storms filled with lightning, drought, insects, brutal winters, heavy snows, fierce winds, and everything else the Montana mountains could throw at it.

There are fallen trees scattered throughout this property. Some finally yielded to age. Others were struck by lightning or brought down by wind and heavy snow. Why this Douglas fir still stands while others do not is a mystery known only to its Creator.

One day, it too will fall.

But until that day, it stands because God sustains it.

Jesus told us to consider the lilies of the field and the birds of the air. He pointed to ordinary things that people passed every day and used them to reveal extraordinary truths about His Father's care.

Standing beneath this old fir, I've begun to wonder whether that invitation extends farther than flowers and sparrows.

If our heavenly Father clothes lilies that bloom for only a season...

If He watches over birds that few people notice...

If He has faithfully sustained this tree through six centuries of Montana winters, lightning, and fire...

How much more will He sustain His children?

That question lands differently today than it did a few years ago.

We live in an age of perpetual anxiety. Every news cycle insists catastrophe is moments away. Every political fight is described as the last chance to save civilization. "Existential threat" has become part of our everyday vocabulary. Social media rewards outrage.

Fear has become a business model. Wars rage overseas. Political divisions deepen at home. Every day seems to bring another reason to worry about tomorrow.

Scripture repeatedly tells us, "Do not be afraid."

The world profits by feeding our fears. Scripture answers them by reminding us who reigns.

He never promised His people a life without storms. He promised His presence in the midst of them.

The temptation is to believe that the world has somehow spun beyond God's control.

We all endure our own Montana winters and summers filled with lightning. Illness. Grief. Financial strain. Broken relationships. Uncertain futures. Seasons when the wind seems relentless, and hope feels scarce.

Standing beneath this old fir, I find myself hearing Christ's words with fresh ears.

Consider the lilies.

Consider the birds.

And perhaps, if you'll permit one Montana addition to the list, consider an old Douglas fir.

Sometimes it helps to touch something living that has survived.

Every time I leave that quiet draw, I'm reminded that the God who has faithfully sustained that tree throughout its existence has faithfully sustained me throughout mine.

The headlines will keep shouting.

God will remain faithful.

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