Survival

 It's called the "survivor tree" for a reason. It's bark is black - charred from the fiery inferno that touched it twenty-four years ago. It's scars are still evident that it has a story to tell. The tree is more than 90 years old, and it is located in the heart of downtown Oklahoma City. 

On April 19, 1995, the tree witnessed the worst of human nature as a young man detonated a truck-full of explosives in front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, killing 168 people and destroying the whole north face of the building. Prior to the bombing, it had provided shade in the hot summer days. Now, cars parked near it caught fire from the explosion, scorching part of the tree's trunk and branches. 

As the investigation into the domestic act of terrorism continued, the tree was nearly cut down in an effort to recover valuable bits of evidence lodged in it's trunk and limbs. But a few determined people realized that this tree was a symbol of survival and hope. That it could offer an example to the community of deeply-rooted love, grace, and triumph over tragedy. And so they set out to save it. 


Thanks to some tender care, the tree has fully recovered and is thriving, much like the city where it stands. It is now part of a memorial to those who innocently lost their lives that day and is a testament to the overcoming of good over evil. And it has not only offered hope to the community of Oklahoma City but seedlings from it have been sent to others who have faced their own tragedy as a reminder that it's possible to withstand the worst and still go on to live. One of those seedlings now has a home in the backyard of a woman whose daughter lost her life in the Columbine shootings 20 years ago. She says that every time she looks out in the yard and sees that tree, she reminds herself that life can go on. 

And I ask myself if just maybe all of us feel a bit like that tree? Where we once spread our branches in growth and anticipation of all things new and alive, those same branches have gotten burnt, scorched, busted, and gouged by all manner of things, causing us to form scars and fight off our own demise. Given up as hopeless by the on-lookers of our tragedy, perhaps we are the only ones in control of what we do with this remnant of who we once were. 

I wonder if this isn't a metaphor for all of life: if our power to survive lies in our ability to choose. To decide our own way of what we will make of this suffering that has befallen us. To choose whether or not to side with anger or joy, bitterness or forgiveness, hate or love, victimization or victory. And this ability to choose the surviving way (which will eventually lead to the thriving way) depends on how deep your roots are and where you have planted yourself. 

Are you grounded enough to withstand your own tragedy? Do you believe enough in the unfailing truth of God that not even the worst blasts can remove you? The fire may burn you but, if Grace is your keeper, it cannot destroy you. You may become dinged up and carved out. You may have shards in your limbs from where it all blew apart. You may even be left for a goner by those around you. But are you brave enough to gather up the courage to dig those roots deeper into what still stands? 

And I see the progression of this...that, if we choose the survivor way - if we decide to extend our branches in love and goodness when the easier thing would be to give up and die - if we decide to drop seedlings of hope and survival for others out of our own pain - if we choose this...we create greater purpose to keep on fighting for hope ourselves. We generate greater reason for our adversity to mean something more than just an unfortunate fact that we cannot escape. 

We are all survivors of something. Perhaps we are survivors of emotional trauma or physical pain. Or just maybe we are survivors simply of our own failure. Whatever the circumstances, we are all alike in the fact that we have all been forced, at some point, to ask "why?" We have all stared at the ruins of a broken dream or a deeply personal loss and wondered if we can ever go on. We have all faced the reality of grave disappointment and thought, "there's no way I can start over from this." It's the human response. And it's a natural one. 

And I'm beginning to see that each of us has a survival story of something we've come out of. Whether we came out well or not is another thing. But we each have a story to share that encompasses some element of these human questions and feelings. Yet so often, unlike the tree, we are afraid to put that story into action and allow ourselves to spread hope in the wake of our tragedy. 

Just maybe if we chose to do the hard thing and allow our pain to be the thing through which God does His best work - just maybe if we were willing to create space for our stories to be heard - just maybe if we were willing to listen and ask more instead of advise more, "fix" more, and judge more - just maybe if we were willing to connect with our hearts instead of our heads - just maybe we would discover that to confess the deepest-held struggles of our souls is to somehow discover healing in a community of others who have felt the same.

And so, I ask you to decide for yourself which way you will choose. Will you choose the victorious way? The way of embracing all of your story and all of it's hurt and allowing it to change you for the better? Allowing it to help you take your survivor story to a world that needs hope? Or will you choose to do perhaps the easier thing and simply give up? 

If you choose the brave way - the victor-way - the Grace-led way, where will you leave seeds of survival and hope? Where will you choose to dig your roots down and extend your branches in warmth and love? 

Because, when it all comes down to it, are any circumstances truly bigger than the God who rules all this?

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