Of all the trees in God’s creation the oak is my absolute favorite.
While I genuinely love all trees, it is the oak that captured my heart, even as a little girl long ago. Perhaps it is because one oak tree in particular lives in some of my earliest and fondest memories.
As a child growing up in post WWII England, life was simple and precious. It was a treat after a Sunday dinner, to wander through the beautiful countryside. From the top of Shotover Hill, we could enjoy lovely views of Oxford, the city where we lived.
Along one of the pathways grew a huge oak tree. Towering high into the sky it seemed to stretch for miles above my head. I would gaze upward into its branches as the leaves rustled in the breeze, stirring my vivid imagination until I was certain I could hear whisperings.
What are you saying to me? I wondered.
One Sunday, to our dismay, we discovered woodcutters gathered around the tree. With their crosscut saw and axes, they were felling that mighty oak.
Perhaps I will never know why the tree had to come down, but what happened next became part of our family story.
My father, an avid tree lover, spoke with the men, and I later discovered that he had purchased planks of wood from the old oak. He carefully seasoned the wood in our shed, and in due course, lovingly created a collection of useful things from it.
And so, the tree took on new life!
One especially memorable item was a dollhouse he made for me one Christmas. There were also casual tables, stools, and other pieces his hands crafted from that beautiful English oak─some of which have escaped my memory over the years.
Many decades later, after the passing of my elderly parents, Chuck and I faced the bittersweet task of settling their estate and sorting through a lifetime of possessions, deciding what should remain in the family. Among them were Dad’s oak tables and stools. Today, our children each have a piece of their grandfather’s craftsmanship in their homes, and I have several pieces in mine here in Texas.
Imagine that. Wood from one old English oak tree now rests in homes in Texas, California and Mississippi. I couldn’t help but think:
Some trees never really leave us. They simply change the way they stand beside us.
Perhaps that lifelong affection for oak trees explains why Chuck and I spent months searching for just the right second property in the heart of the Texas Hill Country. We knew what we wanted: a few acres of beautiful land with an abundance of mature oak trees. Eventually we found our five acres, and it only made sense to name it Whispering Oaks Ridge.
It is there, immersed in God’s creation, where I find a deep sense of belonging and peace. As I wander beneath the many groves and varieties of oak trees, I marvel at their majestic beauty. I notice how deeply rooted they are, how no two grow in quite the same way. How each develops at its own pace and into its own unique configuration. They never seem to hurry. They simply keep growing.
They withstand heat, cold, drought, wind and winter storms. Their branches offer shade and shelter to countless forms of wildlife. Their acorns fall to the earth holding the promise of another generation. And even when an oak’s own season of standing finally ends, its usefulness may live on. It may provide warmth for a fire. Its wood may become something of practical use or a thing of beauty. Or, left where it falls, it slowly returns to the earth, enriching the soil from which new life eventually emerges.
Nothing needs to be wasted. Perhaps that is one of the oak’s quietest lessons.
The longer I wander among these trees, the more I realize that what I once imagined as a little girl may not have been so fanciful after all.
The oaks are whispering. Not with words of course, but with the example of their lives. Perhaps they are saying: grow slowly and put down deep roots. Stand firm through the changing seasons. Provide shelter where you can. Scatter seeds for what will come after you. And, when your season changes, find another way to give.
Perhaps the oak’s lesson becomes a lesson about our own lives. There is a time when we understand that a meaningful life is not measured merely by what we accomplish in our lifetime. Perhaps it is also measured by what happens because we were here—the difference we made in the lives of those we touched.
My father’s hands gave that English oak another life. Decades later, his daughter and grandchildren still use and treasure what he created. And now, here I sit among Texas oaks, writing words I hope someday will nourish my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren ─ and perhaps generations I will never meet this side of heaven.
Maybe that is what legacy really is.
Not necessarily something grand with our name engraved on it. Perhaps legacy is simply the good we plant, build, teach, model, love, and leave behind. A piece of furniture, fashioned by a father’s hand. A story passed from one generation to another. Faith, lived strongly enough that someone else wants to carry forward, a kindness remembered, or wisdom shared. Seeds planted whose shade we may never sit beneath.
At this stage of life, I think about these things more often than I once did. I cannot know which of my words will be remembered, which lessons will take root, or which small acts of love might ripple through generations. None of us knows that.
Our part is to simply keep planting.
Perhaps that’s why the acorn fascinates me almost as much as the mighty oak. Everything that towering tree may become someday is concealed inside something tiny enough to rest in the palm of my hand. What a powerful reminder of the potential contained in the small things we leave behind ─ a word of encouragement, an example lived, a family tradition, a story, a prayer, a seed of hope.
I think again of that little girl standing beneath the great oak on Shotover Hill, gazing upward and wondering what the rustling leaves were whispering to her. All these years later, standing beneath different oaks on a ridge half a world away, I am finally beginning to understand.
Root yourself deeply in what matters. Keep growing. Give generously. Weather the seasons. Plant something that will outlive you. And trust God with what grows after you are gone.
Perhaps that is the whisper of the oaks.
Perhaps that is a life well lived.
But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit. ─ Jeremiah 17:7-8
