God's Holy Creation

General
1

The Christian Soul and the Giant Redwood: A Catholic Analogy of Grace, Perseverance, and Eternity

Imagine standing beneath a giant redwood. Your eyes follow its trunk upward until it disappears into the heavens. Some redwoods rise over 350 feet high. Others have stood for over 2,000 years, silently witnessing the rise and fall of civilizations. They have endured countless winters, violent storms, raging fires, droughts, and lightning strikes.

From a Catholic perspective, the mature Christian soul is remarkably like one of these majestic trees.

The Seed: Baptism

Every redwood begins as a seed scarcely larger than a tomato seed.

Likewise, every saint began with the tiny seed of sanctifying grace received in Baptism.

Our Lord Himself described the Kingdom in terms of small beginnings:

“The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed…”

Grace begins quietly.

It is almost invisible.

Yet within that tiny seed God has already placed the blueprint of greatness.

The Catechism teaches that sanctifying grace is a participation in the very life of God. Every baptized person possesses within himself the potential to become a saint.

The seed already contains the future tree.

The Hidden Work: Roots Before Height

One of the first priorities of a young redwood is not growing upward.

It grows downward.

Its roots spread widely before it grows tall.

This is profoundly Catholic.

God usually develops depth before visibility.

The Christian often wants visible accomplishments.

God wants invisible holiness.

Prayer.

Silence.

Confession.

Humility.

Daily Mass.

The Rosary.

Scripture.

Adoration.

Hidden acts of charity.

These are roots.

No one applauds roots.

Yet everything depends upon them.

Jesus spent thirty hidden years before three public years.

The Blessed Virgin spent most of her earthly life in obscurity.

Saint Joseph never speaks one recorded word in Scripture.

He was all roots.

An Obscure Wonder: Redwood Roots Are Surprisingly Shallow

One fascinating fact surprises almost everyone.

Redwood roots are usually only six to twelve feet deep.

How can something so enormous remain standing?

Because the roots spread over one hundred feet in every direction.

More importantly…

they intertwine with neighboring redwoods.

Unlike many trees, redwoods do not rely upon one giant taproot.

They rely upon one another.

This is almost a living image of the Communion of Saints.

No Christian grows alone.

We stand because countless others are holding us.

Parents.

Priests.

Friends.

The saints.

Guardian angels.

The Blessed Mother.

The entire Church.

Saint Paul calls the Church the Body of Christ because every member strengthens every other member.

Even hidden contemplative monasteries strengthen missionaries they will never meet.

The roots intertwine beneath the surface.

The Church has always understood this.

Grace is personal.

Salvation is communal.

Mycorrhizal Networks: The Hidden Fellowship

Scientists have also discovered that redwoods participate in underground fungal networks that allow nutrients and chemical signals to move throughout the forest.

While the comparison is imperfect, it beautifully suggests another Catholic reality.

The Holy Spirit quietly communicates life throughout Christ’s Mystical Body.

Prayer offered in one monastery may strengthen a missionary across the world.

One person’s sacrifice may obtain another person’s conversion.

The Communion of Saints is God’s supernatural “living network.”

We seldom see it.

Yet Heaven is constantly at work beneath the surface.

Storms Build Strong Trees

A redwood cannot become magnificent without storms.

Wind causes microscopic tears within the wood.

The tree responds by growing stronger fibers.

Without wind, trees become dangerously weak.

The Christian life follows the same pattern.

Trials produce patience.

Patience produces character.

Character produces hope.

God rarely removes every storm.

Instead, He enlarges our capacity to stand.

Saint Paul learned that God’s grace is perfected in weakness.

The storm was not wasted.

It became formation.

The Astonishing Response to Fire

Perhaps the greatest lesson comes from fire.

Redwoods have bark nearly one foot thick.

It contains very little resin.

This makes it remarkably resistant to flames.

Many fires scar the bark but do not destroy the living tree.

Some fires actually benefit the forest.

Heat opens certain cones.

Ash enriches the soil.

Competing vegetation is removed.

New life begins.

How beautifully this mirrors purification.

God never delights in suffering.

But He often transforms suffering into holiness.

Saint John of the Cross called this the “Dark Night.”

The fire burns away what does not belong.

Pride.

Self-reliance.

Attachment.

Fear.

False identities.

The fire reveals the heart.

As Scripture says,

“Our God is a consuming fire.”

He consumes not the soul but everything that prevents the soul from loving perfectly.

Fire Scars Become Testimonies

Many ancient redwoods bear enormous burn scars.

Yet they continue growing for centuries afterward.

The scar remains.

The life continues.

This resembles the glorified wounds of Christ.

After the Resurrection, Jesus still bore His wounds.

Not because He had failed.

Because redeemed wounds become trophies of victorious love.

Many saints carried scars.

Augustine.

Francis.

Padre Pio.

John Paul II.

None hid them.

Grace transformed them.

Your greatest wound may one day become your greatest testimony.

Redwood Burls: Hope Hidden in the Trunk

Another obscure marvel is the burl.

A burl is a woody growth filled with dormant buds.

If the tree is badly damaged, the burl can produce entirely new trunks.

Even after disaster…

life remains hidden within.

What an extraordinary image of hope.

Every baptized soul carries within himself something no tragedy can destroy:

sanctifying grace.

Repentance remains possible.

Conversion remains possible.

New beginnings remain possible.

As long as earthly life remains, grace can produce new growth.

Fog: Grace Descending from Above

California’s coastal fog provides much of a redwood’s water.

The tallest trees actually drink from the sky.

Their needles capture moisture that drips slowly to the forest floor.

Without the fog, many redwoods would perish.

Likewise, Christians cannot live on earthly effort alone.

Grace descends.

Prayer descends.

The Holy Spirit descends.

The Eucharist descends from Heaven.

“We love because He first loved us.”

Everything begins above before it reaches below.

Growth Rings

Every year adds another ring.

Some years are thick.

Some are painfully thin.

Yet every faithful year becomes part of the whole.

God wastes nothing.

Even the difficult years become strength.

The saint is not one who grows rapidly.

The saint is one who continues growing.

Lightning

Lightning occasionally strikes a redwood.

The bark may split.

The top may be shattered.

Yet many survive.

Likewise, unexpected tragedies strike faithful Christians.

Illness.

Loss.

Betrayal.

Death.

Grace does not always prevent lightning.

Grace enables resurrection afterward.

Standing Together

An isolated tree is vulnerable.

A forest changes everything.

Each tree helps stabilize wind patterns.

Each root strengthens another.

The Church has always insisted that Christianity is not merely “Jesus and me.”

It is Christ and His Mystical Body.

The sacraments.

The saints.

The parish.

The family.

The universal Church.

We stand together.

The Crown Always Reaches Toward Heaven

No matter how wide the roots spread…

the crown always reaches upward.

The Christian also lives this double movement.

Deeply rooted in humility.

Constantly reaching toward Heaven.

Saint Augustine wrote,

“Our hearts are restless until they rest in You.”

The higher the vocation…

the deeper the humility required.

A Final Catholic Reflection

Perhaps the greatest lesson of the giant redwood is this:

No one who looks at the tree admires its roots.

Yet without the roots there would be no tree.

Likewise, the world often admires visible accomplishments, while God delights in hidden fidelity.

A hidden Rosary.

A quiet confession.

An unnoticed act of mercy.

A patient suffering.

A humble Holy Communion.

These are the roots of saints.

Storms may bend the Christian.

Fires may scar him.

Lightning may wound him.

The years may weather him.

Yet if his roots remain intertwined with Christ through the sacraments, nourished by Scripture, anchored in the Church, strengthened by the Communion of Saints, and continually watered by the grace of the Holy Spirit, he can endure for centuries in spiritual fruitfulness and, finally, stand forever in the eternal forest of Heaven.

Like the ancient redwood, the holy Christian does not become great by striving merely to rise higher than others. He becomes great by allowing his hidden life in Christ to spread ever wider and stronger. Then, when the storms of life arrive, he does not merely survive. He becomes a living witness that God’s grace can make a human soul steadfast, fruitful, and enduring until the day when faith gives way to the eternal vision of God.

2

The natural world

The natural world is a living parable authored by God. Every sunrise preaches hope. Every river teaches perseverance. Every tree proclaims rootedness. Every season reminds us that change and fidelity coexist. Every storm reveals hidden strength. Every star invites wonder.

To walk attentively through creation is to enter a vast sanctuary where the homily is preached without words, the choir is composed of birdsong and wind, and every creature quietly directs the heart toward its Maker.

The disciple who learns to read both Scripture and creation begins to see with sacramental eyes. The world is no longer ordinary. It becomes transparent to grace. The wisdom of the natural world is ultimately the wisdom of its Creator, who has woven truth, beauty, goodness, and purpose into every corner of His handiwork, inviting us to know Him, love Him, and one day behold Him face to face in the new creation, where every mystery glimpsed in nature will find its everlasting fulfillment in Christ.

3

Very beautiful. Not rap music. Not the latest movies. Not TV series with cartoon characters. Just the heart of a real Catholic. A breath of fresh air. Thank you.

1 Like
4

The Little Garden Behind the House

Imagine a small garden behind an ordinary home.

Nothing about it would ever appear in a magazine. There are no grand fountains, no marble statues, and no rare exotic plants. It is simply a modest patch of earth surrounded by a weathered fence. Yet every morning, almost without fail, its owner walks quietly among the flowers and vegetables with a cup of coffee in one hand and a pair of pruning shears in the other.

To a passerby, it may seem that very little is happening.

But the gardener knows better.

He notices the tiny tomato beginning to blush red. He sees a weed that has quietly appeared overnight. He observes where the soil has become too dry and where yesterday’s rain has collected a little too generously. He notices the first unopened rosebud that no one else has yet seen.

The garden speaks a language that only patient eyes can understand.

Our souls are much like that little garden.

God is not merely a visitor who drops by occasionally. He is the faithful Gardener who walks among the rows every single day. He notices the smallest movement of grace long before we do. He sees the beginnings of virtues while they are still hidden beneath the surface. He also notices the little weeds of resentment, pride, impatience, and discouragement before they have grown large enough to choke the flowers He has planted.

Most of us wish spiritual growth worked like flipping on a light switch.

God prefers seasons.

He delights in springtime beginnings, summer growth, autumn harvests, and even the quiet winters that seem empty but are secretly preparing new life beneath the frozen ground.

Saint Francis de Sales once reminded us that we should “be patient with everyone, but first of all with yourself.” A gardener never becomes angry because a seed has not become an oak tree in one afternoon. Neither does God grow impatient with us. He understands the pace of grace.

Every garden also contains things that appear useless.

There are fallen leaves, broken stems, and plants that never produced what we hoped they would.

Yet even these become compost.

What looked like failure slowly becomes nourishment for future growth.

How comforting that is.

Our disappointments, confessed sins, unanswered prayers, and painful memories need not be discarded. Placed into God’s hands, they become rich soil from which humility, compassion, and wisdom quietly emerge. The Lord wastes nothing that is surrendered to Him.

A careful gardener also knows that pruning can appear cruel.

Healthy branches are cut back.

Flowers are pinched.

Fruit trees are trimmed.

For a time, the garden actually looks worse.

But every gardener knows the secret.

Pruning is never punishment.

It is preparation.

Jesus Himself said, “Every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit” (John 15:2).

Many of God’s greatest blessings first arrive disguised as pruning.

A closed door.

A delayed answer.

An unexpected illness.

A season of waiting.

Only years later do we often discover that what felt like loss was actually careful cultivation.

Then there is watering.

No gardener pours a year’s worth of water on a plant all at once.

It is given day after day.

So it is with grace.

Sunday Mass.

Morning prayer.

The Rosary.

Confession.

A quiet reading of Scripture.

A kind word.

A hidden sacrifice.

None of these may seem dramatic by themselves, yet together they nourish the roots until the soul becomes strong enough to weather life’s storms.

One of the quiet miracles of a home garden is that it attracts life.

Butterflies appear.

Bees arrive.

Birds begin to sing.

The garden does not chase them.

It simply becomes the kind of place where life wants to dwell.

The same is true of a holy soul.

People are drawn, often without knowing why, to those who have allowed Christ to cultivate their hearts. Peace has its own fragrance. Joy has its own color. Kindness blooms like flowers after spring rain.

Perhaps the most beautiful part of a home garden comes at the end of the day.

The gardener does not stand over every plant demanding that it grow before sunset.

He simply smiles, closes the gate, and trusts that God will continue working through the night.

Is that not how our Heavenly Father watches over us?

While we sleep, He remains awake.

While we worry, He continues tending.

While we wonder whether we are growing at all, He already sees tomorrow’s blossoms hidden inside today’s buds.

Then comes a thought that brings us back to Easter morning.

When Mary Magdalene mistook Jesus for the gardener, she was far closer to the truth than she realized.

He is the Gardener.

Not only of Eden.

Not only of the Resurrection garden.

But of every human heart.

Every morning He walks quietly through the little garden of our souls. He waters faith. He prunes pride. He pulls weeds with infinite patience. He delights over the smallest blossom of charity. He waits for the fruits of the Holy Spirit to ripen in their proper season.

And every now and then, when the morning light is just right and the heart has grown still enough to listen, we hear His familiar voice calling us by name.

Not because the garden is finished.

But because the Gardener is pleased with what His grace is growing there.

May we never become discouraged by how much work remains.

Instead, may we rejoice that the Divine Gardener has never abandoned His garden.

He who planted us in His love will continue tending us with perfect wisdom until the day we bloom forever in the eternal garden of His Kingdom. Amen.

5

Thank you Peter1 I very much appreciate your appreciation:-)

6

Yes, this seems to be the concensus. “I have been baptised; therefore I am saved.” The light switch has been flippped.
What is baptism? it is also a ceremony, a right of passage, an official statement, to God, to oneself, to the world - that now I am married…to God, in better situations, in worse: in sickness and in health; in good fortune and in bad.
And then there’s the subject of chastity, of being faithful, to all that baptism represents.

When two people, man and woman get married, there is a ceremony. It is a statement. The switch has been flipped. But it’s not the ceremony that makes the marriage a success. It’s the heartfelt reliving of that ceremony every day, bringing it into focuse in my heart, and purposely cultivating everything that that ceremony stands for.
In other words, the ceremony is not the completion…it’s the beginning. The beginning of the creation, the implementation of values, the values that are symbolized by the ceremony.
…just one line can be provacative. In the same way, every line from Mallen’s pen, can be a spiringboard into the realm of happy contemplation.

7

Peter1

WOW … So much wisdom Spoken so succinctly

. Thank you!

8

Mary Magdalene: The Garden That Remembered :herb:

Very early in the morning, before the world had quite awakened, the earth was holding its breath.

The dew rested on every blade of grass like tiny pearls borrowed from heaven. A robin announced the coming dawn. Wildflowers slowly unfolded their petals, not because someone commanded them, but because they recognized the light. This is one of nature’s oldest habits: when true light appears, life responds.

Mary Magdalene walked through that quiet garden carrying a heart far heavier than her feet. She had watched Christ die. The One who had restored her life, who had driven away the darkness that had imprisoned her soul, now lay behind a stone… or so she believed.

Nature around her seemed to share her sorrow.

The olive trees stood silently, their silver leaves barely moving. Even the breeze seemed hesitant, as if unwilling to disturb the sacred grief of the morning. The flowers, still wet with tears of dew, appeared to mourn with her.

Yet beneath the soil, another story was already unfolding.

Every gardener knows that the greatest transformations happen where no eye can see. Seeds disappear into darkness before they become fields of grain. Bulbs spend long winters beneath frozen ground before erupting into color. Oaks spend years growing roots before anyone notices their height.

Creation has always preached resurrection.

Mary did not yet understand that she was walking through the world’s first Easter garden.

She searched for a dead body.

God was preparing her to become the first witness to eternal life.

How like the forest this is. After a wildfire, everything appears ruined. Blackened trunks stand like silent monuments to destruction. Yet hidden beneath the ash, certain pine cones open only because of intense heat. Fire, which seems to destroy everything, becomes the very instrument that releases new life.

So it was with Calvary.

The Cross looked like the end.

Heaven knew it was the beginning.

When Mary heard someone behind her, she assumed He was the gardener. She was not entirely mistaken.

Christ is the Gardener of the New Creation.

In Eden, humanity lost the garden through sin.

In another garden, humanity received it back through grace.

Then came a single word.

“Mary.”

Nature recognizes familiar voices. Sheep know the shepherd. A foal recognizes its mother. A young eagle answers the cry of its parent from high above the cliffs. Across forests, oceans, and skies, life responds to the voice that gave it life.

So did Mary.

One word was enough.

The same voice that had once driven darkness from her soul now called her by name. The garden bloomed again, not because flowers suddenly appeared, but because hope awakened.

She became the first herald of the Resurrection.

Notice something beautiful.

The bee does not keep pollen for itself. It carries life from flower to flower. Rivers do not drink their own water. Trees do not eat their own fruit. The sun does not shine upon itself.

Everything in creation receives in order to give.

Mary received the greatest news ever spoken, not so she could keep it, but so she could carry it.

“Go to my brothers…”

That became her mission.

She was transformed from a seeker into a messenger, from one who wept beside an empty tomb into one who filled the world with hope.

The Catholic Church honors Saint Mary Magdalene not merely because she loved Christ deeply, but because she teaches every disciple what happens when grace takes root. Like fertile soil receiving a seed, her heart welcomed the Lord completely. Once transformed, she became living ground where faith could flourish and spread to others.

Saint Augustine might remind us that every heart is restless until it rests in God. Saint Thomas Aquinas would add that grace perfects nature rather than destroying it. Mary Magdalene is living proof. Christ did not erase who she was. He healed her, elevated her, and sent her. Just as sunlight does not change the nature of a flower but enables it to become fully itself, so divine grace allowed Mary to become the woman God had always intended her to be.

Perhaps that is why her feast falls in the heart of summer.

Gardens are full.

Fields are ripening.

Trees are clothed in green.

All creation whispers the same lesson Mary learned beside the empty tomb:

The Gardener is still at work.

He still calls each of us by name.

He still turns winters into springs, ashes into gardens, tears into witnesses, and ordinary people into saints.

And somewhere, in the quiet places of our own souls, the dew is waiting… because dawn is always nearer than darkness believes.

9

I don’t contribute here very often Mallen; but sometimes the things I say don’t go down very well. It’s only that you and I, we’re on the same (or very similar) page. Others seem to enjoy discussong their favorite TV cartoon series, or rap music.

10

Right! I’ve spent a lot of my life feeling bad about mysef, or the way things have turned out. This is a total waste of time. Last few years, I have been able (by grace) to understand, that if I fall off my horse…the best thing to do is get back on the horse.
It’s about the darkness you have been talking about, and the “dawn” that’s always at hand. I once wrote a little poem. Here are some of the lines:
"Now the night is ending,

Dearest one don’t cry.

Rays of dawn are sending,

Light througout the sky.

Open up your eyes, and,

No longer fear your dreams.

Love and light eternal,

Now will reign supreme.

Next verse:

Your are your own worst enemy.

You are your own best friend.

Take the road to freedom.

It’s just around the bend.

Recognize your power,

Know your real worth.

Let go of your chains, and,

Accept your second birth."

There was a gospel song I heard when I was a kid, “Let the Sun Shine In”. It’s always a choice. Or as you have written: “It’s always nearer than the darkness believes.”

Because…if we keep the shutters closed, even though the sun is shining, it won’t come into our room. But when we approach God with a joyful heart…we can begin to resonate with His beauty and His love.
Jesus says the same thing:

“Rejoice and be exceeding glad…” We just have to agree to accept.

11

Exactly! The first lesson: “I am not this body/mind; I am an eternal spirit soul.” The world wide web is filled with advertisements: " Purchase this product and you ; and you’ll be happy." But it doesn’t work. We begin looking again, looking for something else. This is the restlessness that the saint speaks of. So many enticements…and no one is fulfilled. Consumerism.
But why?

If I am not material; if I am eternal spirit…I can love the material things of thiis world, but they cannot love me back. The billionaire needs another billion.
Therefore material wealth, material health, material fame and fortune, material power…the spirit remains unfed. Therefore the heart is restless.
We are infinitesimal spirit souls. God is the Surpeme spirit Whole. Although we are individual, we are simultaneously part and parcel of the Supreme. The leaf on the tree has to water the root. Then he becomes fulfilled. No more restlessness.
Satin abides behind every advetisement, beckoning, beckoning…new clothes, new car, new house, new girl friend, new boy friend, new …beckoning and smiling. But that’s his job. He’s only there to accomodate those who turn away from God…like Adam and Eve…looking for the taste of things that God has said won’t work. The whole world is restless…looking for fulfillment, in the things that won’t endure, the things that can’t supply. The scientist is thinking, the planning commision is planning…how to make our lives perfect…but still everyone is restless.
And this is what we’re here to learn. Fulfillment isn’t in outside things; it’s an inside job. That’s what religion is all about. It’s a revolution…against delusion.

12

A story based on 2Corinthians Chapter 4 verses 7-15

The Potter’s Garden

On the edge of a small village stood an old garden that seemed to have been forgotten by everyone except its Maker.

At the center of the garden sat an elderly potter.
He seemed to be caring for A garden of Scattered clay pots Weathered from Time and the Elements.

A traveler entered the garden carrying a polished silver vase wrapped carefully in cloth.

“I have spent my whole life trying not to become one of those,” he said, pointing toward the cracked clay pots.

The potter smiled but said nothing.

Instead, he invited the traveler to walk through the garden.

The first pot they found stood beside a young rosebush. A long crack ran from its rim nearly to its base. Yet every morning, dew collected inside the crack before slowly soaking into the roots below.

“See the roses?” the potter asked.

“They drink from what escaped.”

A little farther on stood another broken pot. Tiny violets had rooted in the opening where a large piece had once fallen away.

“What was once called damage,” the potter whispered, “became someone’s home.”

They continued walking.

A robin landed on the rim of another chipped vessel and drank rainwater gathered there during the night before flying off to feed her waiting chicks.

Nearby, butterflies rested upon rough clay warmed by the morning sun.

Even the cracks had become places of life.

The traveler looked at his polished silver vase.

It reflected the sunlight brilliantly.

But nothing grew from it.

Nothing drank from it.

Nothing rested upon it.

It was beautiful.

It was admired.

It was empty.

Just then a gentle rain began to fall.

The garden became wonderfully alive.

The thirsty earth welcomed every drop.

The Nearby stream sang a little louder.

Leaves shimmered.

The fragrance of rich soil rose like incense.

Rain filled every clay vessel.

The cracked ones overflowed first.

Water escaped through their fractures, quietly nourishing flowers, moss, herbs, and tiny seedlings hidden beneath their sides.

The polished silver vase held every drop tightly within itself.

Not a single blade of grass around it received any water.

The traveler watched in silence.

For the first time he understood that perfection sometimes protects itself so carefully that it forgets how to give.

The potter finally spoke.

“My Son once carried a cross through a garden.”

The traveler looked up.

“He, too, appeared broken.”

The old man’s voice became softer than the falling rain.

“Many believed His life was leaking away.”

He pointed toward the stream.

“But love has a mystery.”

He touched one of the cracked vessels.

“What appears to be loss often becomes the place where life begins.”

The traveler knelt beside the broken pots.

He noticed things he had missed before.

Tiny ferns growing in shaded cracks.

Seeds tucked safely into rough edges by the autumn wind.

Moss softening broken rims.

Morning light slipping through openings that once looked like failures.

The whole garden seemed to proclaim the same quiet truth.

Nothing in God’s creation is wasted when it is placed into His hands.

Winter would come.

Leaves would fall.

Branches would appear barren.

The stream would slow beneath ice.

Yet deep beneath the frozen earth, roots would continue their hidden work.

Spring was already being prepared long before anyone could see it.

The traveler Embraced his perfect pot.

Without hesitation, he placed it beside the clay pots.

Then he asked the potter a simple question.

“Could you teach me to become like clay?”

The old man smiled with the warmth of the morning sun.

“I already have.”

The traveler looked down in confusion.

The potter reached into the earth, picked up a handful of soft clay, and let it fall gently through his fingers.

“You were never made to shine like silver.”

“You were formed from the dust of this earth, breathed into by God Himself.”

“The treasure has never been the vessel.”

“The treasure has always been the Life carried within it.”

At that moment, the breeze carried the fragrance of roses across the garden.

The birds resumed their songs.

The bees continued their patient labor.

The stream kept moving toward the sea.

And every cracked vessel quietly fulfilled the purpose for which it had been made.

So it is with every disciple of Christ.

God does not ask us to become flawless porcelain displayed behind glass.

He asks us to become living earthen vessels, humble enough to receive His grace, courageous enough to pour it out, and trusting enough to believe that even our cracks can become little rivers through which His mercy reaches a thirsty world.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson hidden in the Potter’s Garden: all creation, from the silent oak to the patient stream, from the bee to the broken clay jar, joins St. Paul in proclaiming one beautiful truth: “We hold this treasure in earthen vessels, that the surpassing power may be of God and not from us.” When we remain in the Potter’s hands, nothing is wasted, and every season becomes a chapter in the story of resurrection.

13

The Lion on the Ridge

The first time Daniel saw the lion, he almost didn’t notice it.

The African sun had only begun to climb above the horizon, painting the acacia trees with bands of gold. Daniel had come halfway around the world because his life had quietly fallen apart. The company he had spent thirty years building had been sold. His wife had died three winters earlier. His children loved him, but they lived lives that no longer seemed to have room for long conversations.

His parish priest had suggested, almost casually, “Go somewhere where God still speaks without words.”

Daniel had laughed when he heard it.

Now, standing on the open savanna with a weathered guide named Joseph, he wondered if the old priest had known exactly what he was saying.

“There,” Joseph whispered.

Daniel followed the guide’s finger.

On a low granite ridge sat a mature male lion.

He wasn’t hunting.

He wasn’t roaring.

He simply sat.

The breeze moved through his mane as if it had all morning to do so.

For nearly fifteen minutes the lion never moved.

Daniel finally broke the silence.

“I thought lions were always doing something.”

Joseph smiled.

“That’s because you’ve only seen them in documentaries.”

Daniel laughed.

“I suppose I have.”

“The lion is teaching you your first lesson.”

“What lesson?”

Joseph kept his eyes fixed on the ridge.

“Power doesn’t have to announce itself.”

They returned the next morning.

The lion was there again.

Again he sat quietly.

This time Daniel watched more carefully.

The lion’s ears moved independently.

His eyes followed distant antelope.

His nose caught scents carried by invisible currents.

Without appearing busy, he missed nothing.

Joseph finally spoke.

“You see a lion sitting.”

“I do.”

“I see a lion working.”

Daniel frowned.

“He’s not doing anything.”

Joseph shook his head.

“No. He’s deciding.”

The words lingered long after breakfast.

He’s deciding.

Daniel realized how much of his own life had been reaction.

Emails.

Meetings.

Deadlines.

Deadlines chasing other deadlines.

Very little deciding.

Very little listening.

He wondered when he had stopped paying attention to God before making decisions.

On the fourth day the lion rose.

Not suddenly.

Not dramatically.

He stood as though every movement had already been considered before the muscles obeyed.

He walked downhill.

There was no hurry.

No wasted motion.

No unnecessary display.

Several younger lions moved aside as he passed.

He had not demanded respect.

His life had earned it.

Joseph broke the silence again.

“The young lions learn by watching.”

Daniel nodded.

“They’re copying him.”

“No.”

Joseph smiled.

“They’re becoming like him.”

That evening Daniel opened the small Bible he carried.

His eyes fell upon words he had read many times but had never truly seen.

“Learn from Me…”

Not merely obey Me.

Not merely admire Me.

Learn from Me.

He closed the Bible.

For the first time he realized that Christianity was not simply believing doctrines.

It was apprenticeship.

Christ was not only giving commandments.

He was forming persons.

Several days later a violent thunderstorm swept across the plain.

Animals scattered.

Wind bent trees toward the earth.

Rain hammered the dusty ground until it became rivers.

The lion did not panic.

He moved deliberately toward higher ground.

Not because he was fearless.

Because he knew where safety was found.

Daniel watched from the shelter of the jeep.

Joseph spoke almost to himself.

“Every creature trusts something.”

The words struck deeper than Daniel expected.

Every creature trusts something.

His company.

His savings.

His reputation.

His plans.

His health.

One by one they had all proven uncertain.

The lion trusted what had never changed.

His Maker had equipped him with instincts suited to his nature.

The Christian had been given something even greater.

Not instinct.

The Holy Spirit.

On the final morning they returned once more to the ridge.

The lion stood facing the sunrise.

His silhouette seemed carved into the morning itself.

Neither hurried nor hesitant.

Simply present.

Daniel suddenly understood why Scripture called Christ the Lion of Judah.

Not because lions dominate.

Because true kingship possesses a quiet authority born of perfect confidence in the Father’s will.

The lion ruled the plain because he lived according to the nature he had been given.

Christ reigns because He perfectly reveals the nature of the Father.

And the Christian’s vocation is neither to imitate a lion nor merely to admire Christ from a distance, but to allow the life of Christ to become so deeply rooted within that courage, patience, wisdom, mercy, and steadfastness begin to arise almost as naturally as a lion walking across the savanna.

As they turned toward the waiting vehicle, Joseph stopped.

“You came here looking for peace.”

Daniel nodded.

“I think I did.”

Joseph smiled.

“No.”

He looked once more toward the ridge.

“You came here looking for yourself.”

Daniel started to answer, but the words would not come.

For the first time in many years, he realized that the deepest work of God was not repairing the circumstances of his life.

It was reshaping the man who was living it.

As the jeep disappeared into the golden grass, the lion remained on the ridge, watching the horizon.

Daniel smiled to himself.

“Lord,” he prayed silently, “teach me to live as that lion lives: never proving who I am, never wasting what You have given me, always watchful, always faithful, always resting in the identity You have bestowed. Shape me until the courage of the Lion of Judah is no longer merely Someone I admire, but the life I allow You to form within me.”