I am a tree (long)

I received something very neat in my email, from a friend who prayed for me and then sketched out the prayer. I kinda didn't ask permission to post it but I figure it was given to me and I'm not naming names. Plus this has really inspired me so I'm putting up the picture. The explanation is as follows (I edited the names):

You are the tree. Tall and strong, but seemingly lifeless. Peanut is in the tire swing that hangs from your branches. One side is starting to break. The grave is The Bear. A life that is dead to you and slowly being scribbled out of the picture. The yellow represents God. God will hold the rope that holds Peanut up together. God is still in your branches, and comforting you during this winter. Spring will come. God, as hard as it may be, is also still with The Bear. He may not be wanting God there, but God is God and He is with The Bear as well.

I was very touched by this and couldn't put my finger on what exactly touched me. But after a while I realized it's the line "Spring will come." I so AM that barren tree right now, seemingly lifeless. I have gone into survival mode, much like a tree during winter. I feel as though I will never again have beauty or fruit in my life. But yes, spring WILL come one day!

But never satisfied with the surface, I decided to look up what happens to trees during their dormant period. Trees in dormancy are protecting themselves from the elements, surviving. But more than that, their root systems are still active! There, under the ground, hidden from sight, their roots are still burrowing away into the ground, drawing life from the soil.

Oh, how I hope to burrow my roots deep into Life in my heavenly Father! and someday Spring will come!

And now, I leave you with the short poem "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast

A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair

Upon whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain

Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree