I Need Your Presence Not Your Problem Solving
On the Secrets Trees Reveal
If you were a tree, what kind would you be? This is not a frivolous question to foster bonding at a gathering of friends. It’s a question that reveals your thoughts on an important subject of human flourishing. A recent trip to Costa Rica reinforced my love of trees with their iconic high canopies of graceful branches sheltering Brahmin Cows below and Howler Monkeys above. What do these trees have in common with Tolkien’s Forest of Fangorn and the Ents, Shakespeare’s Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane, Dr. Seuss’s dog party tree from Go, Dog. Go! and Colorado aspen groves?
These trees teach us about what we need to survive. Last summer, on a mountain bike ride with Rick through a Colorado aspen forest, I was reminded of the ancient Gothic cathedral in Cologne, Germany, and I wrote this: An aspen forest is a Koellner Dom with spliced walls and open windows. Ruach speaks and sings in the small leaves, like choir boys sounding high and clear. Like the trees of Fangorn, Birnam, and the dog party, aspen groves are community outreach centers extending help to neighbors in need. As such, they help us look beyond ourselves. These trees work together to fight enemies, vanquish a malicious king, provide fun, and sustain others. They show us what kind of tree to be in our individualistic culture.
An aspen grove is an organism of interdependence. Contrast that with oak trees. I have two majestic oaks in the yard, each numbered and protected by the city. I marvel at how they sustain themselves in our dry climate with their deep roots. But oaks are solitary trees. In our area, it’s common to see a lone oak in a sea of dry grasses and brittle mustard plants that look like scarecrows. Aspen, on the other hand, are connected to “hundreds or thousands more by a network of roots so deep they can survive wildfires.” That’s why author K. J. Ramsey describes herself as being “more aspen than oak” (77). She knows the importance of interdependence from first-hand experience.
K. J. Ramsey deals with excruciating daily pain from an illness that flared up in her early twenties. She could no longer work, and on good days she was glad to make it to the couch. The first sentence of her book is, “This book is not a before and after story” but a story “from the middle where so many of us live yet so few describe” (19). She adds this poignant reflection, “The tacit message in our churches, culture, and relationships is this: success is public; suffering is private” (158). This reality contributed to her personal isolation.
One day Sarah walked into her private pain during an early flareup. She stopped by a couple times a week, often without announcement. At first, Ramsey wanted to hide and not open the door because of the shame she felt over her dirty house and disheveled life, but Sarah remained unfazed and kept coming back. “She entered the place of my confinement, the prison of my perceived uniqueness, and sat with a willingness to witness the desperation I felt (161). Soon, their roots intertwined.
Sarah bore witness to her story. More than the words they spoke, Ramsey remembers “being allowed to be broken and hopeless” and over time “the darkness of shame began to recede beside the gentle light of Sarah’s acceptance” (162). In what she calls “the welcome of weakness,” her suffering became less private, opening a door out of her lonesome confinement.
It is trite but true that people in distress don’t want your problem-solving skills, but your presence. But what is it that makes your presence a comfort and not a burden? What does it mean to be witness to someone’s pain? Throughout my post-cancer experience, I’ve been struggling with ongoing stomach issues that I can’t figure out how to resolve. It’s especially hard at night. When I show Rick my bloated stomach, I don’t want him to pity me or tick off solutions. I simply want him to notice because that communicates that he’s not putting pressure on me to get better or put it behind me with a quick and easy, “Let’s move on.” Witnessing validates the reality that “This too shall last”—at least for a time—to borrow the title of Ramsey’s book. It’s like being an eyewitness, the most persuasive role in a court of law, a role that validates and releases a person from the possibility of prison. Validation, in turn, contains the seeds of change whereby sufferers look outside themselves for help when they are weak.
The welcome of weakness is a true paradox. When Paul summarizes his account of sufferings in the statement, “For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:10) he is touching on an important correction in our individualistic culture. Weakness reveals the vast root system of connectedness to others and helps us look up beyond the canopy to God, a help that will not put us to shame. It starts with allowing others to notice our weakness. Sometimes we may even have to tell others about it. Being vulnerable is a weakness that makes us stronger.
I leave you with a few simple questions. What kind of tree are you? What small decision can you make today to be more vulnerable? Who is calling you to bear witness?
*Stay tuned for part two of bearing witness with another dip into This Too Shall Last.
Source cited:
Ramsey, K. J. This Too Shall Last. Zondervan Reflective, 2020.