JENNIFER CAMP

4 min read ⭑

I am walking beneath a small grove of redwoods near my home, the tops stretching high to blue sky. My dog, Fulton, tugs at the leash, his nose in wet grass and I take off my shoes, my feet bare. There are bees underfoot. As I walk, my eyes scout for their tiny mouths kissing small white flowers buried in the green.

The heat is coming, but not yet, and the grass’s dew covers my toes. I am here, part of this earth, this grass, this sky. I listen for — and feel — my breath, the measured inhale, the resolute exhale. The birds are too quiet for me to hear, with the nearby rush of traffic, the metal and machine, the wheels and engine carrying people, lives, all. But I feel their song, the declaration of all creation: I am here; we are all here; all that is here belongs.

I am fighting loneliness and feelings of insignificance, and I consider the age of the trees by the width of their trunks. How and by whom were they planted? What was their beginning? What songs and stories do they know? Most of the trunks are wide enough for three or four people, organized in a human chain, to encircle their arms around, fingers tip-touching. These trees have been here a long time. And I am fifty-two years old and filled with fear. How can I keep standing? How can I sing the story of wonder — for I am burdened with reconciling the finite with the infinite? How can I account for eternity’s sense of time, its indefatigable lack of measure?

My feet are wonderfully heavy now. I feel each foot’s placement — each pressure of the heel, then the ball, then the base of the toes. I approach the trees but dare not touch them; my feet can hardly bear the grass. So I coax Fulton into the shade of the grove, where there is a metal bench under a redwood facing the larger grove, and we sit together, him on the ground and me on the bench, under the stretched arms of the tree.

The grove I face is just thirteen or fourteen trees, their shade casting giant shadows on the grass. And to their left is a much smaller shadow cast by what looks like an overstuffed Christmas tree, miniature and sweet in comparison, perhaps just a few years old. What is its story? What is it feeling? What am I?

Sitting on the bench under the redwood branches, I am the daughter, the beloved, and I name the angst, the fear: I cannot preserve this, this glory, this moment, and I am so small and so afraid of time’s passing, this life I know slipping away. 

And overhead branches stretch the wings of a mother, a father, protection from above, behind, before and below:

Let me show you a picture — a timeline — of you and your life. Do you believe, with me, your life doesn’t end when you die? Do you know, in my kingdom, you never die? Do you know you can live brand new and live this starting now? Do you know? 

What does your life show for this, if you do know this? How do you act on this confidence? How do you indicate you believe my words are true? 

Let me show you your fear. Let me give you peace in its stead. New life awaits you. New birth is here. This world aches for it. Your heart aches for it. I know. Tell me everything now. I’m listening.

The pain of fear, the fear of pain. How often must I lie down the fear of growing old? Or the fear of being alone? Or the fear of being forgotten, irrelevant, unneeded and invisible? I confess my timeline is a shortsighted view of life — for there is the “here” and then there is the “now” — and humans’ measuring sticks stacked next to God’s glory will never stand up.

Yes, there is new life coming. Yes, there is new life in this moment, too. I look at the redwoods — their vulnerability and strength — and wonder how Jesus felt about leaving his friends and earthly life. Was he ever wistful? Did he ever look back? The look of Peter and Andrew when he first spoke to them on the shore. The sway of the boat as he fell asleep in the storm. The conversations with Mary and the way she looked at him when he was a child. The touch of his dad’s, Joseph’s, hands as he modeled how to cut a piece of wood. The feeling of John leaning against him. The look of bewildered joy when the man who couldn’t walk regained the strength of his legs. I could go on and on, and I have so many questions. Jesus is aware of our struggle with change, regret and wistfulness as we look back at what was and look forward to the unknown ahead. 

In these trials of life, we gain encouragement from knowing Jesus faced everything, every trial, too. He did more than just get through life. He loved. He sacrificed. He endured. He suffered. He worked. He rested. He laughed. He dreamed. He played. We gain strength from knowing He will help us do the same. 

Here I am. Here you are. The ground beneath us, this moment, is holy ground.

How You Tell It

I can see all the pieces
when you hold them

how you shape me from
stardust and magic

dreamed up in a place
forgotten but I’ve always

known. Take me there
to the beginning,

when the song within
me finds it way back to you.

—Jennifer Camp

Jennifer Camp is a poet and listener who delights in investigating the deeper places of the heart. She founded Gather Ministries with her husband, Justin, and manages Loop Collective, a community for women who reject complacency and pursue connection with God. She writes on Substack at Jensen Road.

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