There is something remarkable about standing beneath a 100-year-old bur oak tree. Its massive trunk, sprawling branches, and beautiful canopy command our admiration. For generations, families have gathered underneath its canopy, children have climbed its branches, and people have found relief from the summer heat in its shade.

Over time, a tree like that becomes something of an icon. We admire its beauty and, we hope, go to extreme measures to preserve it. But how often do we consider everything it’s endured?

As an arborist, I tend to notice things that others might overlook. An old wound where a limb was lost. A slight lean from a storm long ago. Perhaps a broad root flare supporting the weight above it. But much of the tree’s history remains hidden.

Deep inside, its growth rings record seasons of abundance and years when drought or other stresses limited growth. Even a narrow ring marks another year of life. And when a trunk leans or a heavy branch extends outward, the tree may grow more wood on one side as it responds to the forces it carries.

The rings can’t tell us the exact weight, but their unevenness can reveal something about the strain.

Standing beneath that magnificent canopy, we’d never know most of it.

I’ve been thinking about how much that resembles our lives. We admire someone’s strength or kindness without knowing what they’ve carried. Sometimes it’s only after a person is gone, when stories are shared at their funeral, that we discover private struggles, quiet sacrifices, and generosity we never witnessed.

The history was there all along. We simply couldn’t see it.

That thought resonated with me while reading Isaiah 61:1-3 recently, a passage that speaks of binding up the brokenhearted, comforting those who mourn, and exchanging ashes for beauty. Then it describes people who will be called “oaks of righteousness,” a planting of the Lord, displaying His splendor.

What caught my attention wasn’t only the image of the oak. It was the order.

Before these people are described as strong trees, they’re described as people who need comfort.

I think that matters, especially when the last thing that we may feel, is strong.

Since my brother Toby passed away, there have been mornings when I’ve opened my Bible with so many tears in my eyes that the words became difficult to read. And honestly, it wasn’t just the words that were blurred. So was my understanding of what God wanted from me.

I kept looking for direction, some lesson I was supposed to learn, or something I needed to do next. Eventually, I began to wonder whether I was asking the wrong question. Maybe God wasn’t asking me to accomplish anything in those moments. Maybe I’d been so focused on finding answers that I was overlooking what I needed most. Just to be still, bring Him my grief, and allow myself to experience His presence.

That realization hasn’t answered all my questions. There are still things I don’t understand.

Maybe you’ve felt that, too. You’ve prayed for someone you love, only to lose them. Or another disappointment has arrived before you’ve recovered from the last one. You want to trust God, yet you find yourself asking where He was when you needed Him.

We can feel ashamed of that anger, as though questions somehow cancel faith. But in Psalm 13, David asks, “How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?” I love how his feeling of abandonment wasn’t edited out of Scripture.

What if the questions we’re afraid to bring to God are part of the very relationship we’re afraid of losing?

I can’t explain why people experience unimaginable loss. And I’ve grown increasingly uncomfortable with the idea that every tragedy must have happened for a reason we’re eventually supposed to discover.

We don’t have to believe God caused our suffering to believe He can bring something meaningful from it.

I wonder whether our desire to explain suffering sometimes keeps us from comforting the person who’s experiencing it. Someone shares their heartbreak and we reassure them that God has a plan.

We mean well.

But maybe they don’t need an explanation at all. Maybe they just need someone willing to sit beside them.

Isaiah speaks of comforting the brokenhearted before calling them mighty oaks. We could learn something from that order, including how we care for ourselves.

A positive mindset doesn’t mean denying loss or pretending we’re grateful for it. Sometimes it’s simply allowing for the possibility that goodness can still exist alongside sorrow. Faith may look less like certainty and more like continuing to reach toward God, even when His presence is difficult to feel.

And I’ve discovered that grief doesn’t automatically make us wiser or kinder. It can leave us guarded, angry, and exhausted.

There have been seasons when I’ve had little to offer anyone because I was still finding my footing. Even the strongest oak needs healthy roots, moisture and care. Sometimes we’re the ones who need someone else’s shade.

As healing allows, though, our experiences may help us recognize another person’s pain. Someone who’s grieved may remember how lonely the weeks after a funeral can become.

Someone who’s questioned God may know how to listen to another person’s doubts without rushing to correct them.

Perhaps that’s one way His compassion reaches us. Through a call we didn’t expect. Through a friend who sits quietly while we cry. Those moments don’t erase what happened, but they can remind us that we’re not carrying everything alone.

I return to that old oak and wonder how different its canopy might look without the drought, the storms, or the branch it lost. Fuller, perhaps. More balanced.

There’s no reason to pretend those experiences didn’t cost the tree something.

But when I stand beneath it, I’m not disappointed by the tree it could have been. I admire the one standing before me, scars and all.

How often do we deny ourselves that same grace? We measure our lives against what we imagined they’d become, grieving not only what we’ve lost but the future we expected.

Yet we don’t need to become stronger, wiser, or more useful to justify what we’ve endured.

Our lives remain worthy of love, scarred or whole, right?

Maybe we can extend that grace to others, too.

We may never see their hidden growth rings or understand the weight they’ve carried. We can still appreciate them for who they are.

Perhaps the most beautiful thing about a mighty 100-year-old oak isn’t how tall it grows or how many storms it survives.

Perhaps it’s the shade it continues to give.

Practice to

Cultivate

Have loss or anger ever made you question God’s presence?

What would it look like to bring those feelings to Him without needing answers first?

And whose hidden struggles might you be overlooking?

Could you offer them understanding, or simply your presence, today?

“Well Rooted” is written by Jeremy Elliott. Elliott owns a lawncare business and lives in the Great Bend area.