The Porch of His Presence

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Creations Parable: The Council of Trees

There once was a grove of trees who lived in the rhythm of sun and soil. They were tall and rooted, weather-worn and wise, and they bore fruit—but not every year.

Some years, their branches stretched wide and heavy with pecans, and the animals came from far and wide to feast beneath their limbs. Other years, the branches were nearly bare. The newcomers in the grove—young saplings with slender trunks and eager hearts—often asked why this was so.

“Why do we not bear fruit every year?” they whispered in the rustling winds.
“We have sun. We have rain. We have soil. Why not now?”

The older trees—gnarled and slow with age—did not answer with words. But their trunks leaned slightly toward one another. Their roots, deep beneath the ground, touched and hummed with a kind of silent understanding.

They were listening.

Then, one late autumn, a young tree decided to bear fruit on her own. She worked quietly all spring, drawing up the waters, storing the sugars, and swelling her fruit. Her nuts dropped early and alone. A single squirrel came, nibbled, and left. The wind scattered the rest.

That winter, the grove stood in stillness.

And then—one warm morning in April—there was a stirring beneath the bark. The old trees lifted their limbs. The younger ones followed. A quiet agreement passed underground from root to root.

This will be the year.

That summer, the branches were heavy. Every tree gave at once. The sky filled with birdsong, and the ground became a dance of pawprints—fox, squirrel, raccoon, deer. Even the soil seemed to rejoice.

In the abundance, no one was forgotten. And in the giving, no one was alone.

When the season ended, the grove stood bare again—but not empty. There had been enough. Seeds had fallen. Life had been fed.

And in the deep quiet of the coming winter, the trees leaned once more toward one another, content to wait.

Not as individuals, but as a council.