There’s just something about Sequoias.
You stand there with your head nodding slowly up and down. No words. What can you say? “BIG TREES.” They’re just there. Thousands of years old. Beautiful, rusty-red strength, with sprinklings of dogwood around. So delicate next to the massiveness of the Sequoias.
You breathe them in. You’d climb them if you could, but it’s a little far up to that first branch. You touch the bark. You look at the wounds from fires, the wounds that didn’t kill, from fires that actually are necessary for Sequoias to thrive. You ponder that.
You walk along the trail on the ground which shows you how long a Sequoia would be lying flat. You turn back to marvel at how far you’ve come. You laugh at your “tall” human friend when he practically disappears next to these trees.
You sing a little because the echo is very satisfying, but then you let the silence fill you. The peace. You breathe easier.
And for the next few days, you feel them alive inside you. You carry them wherever you go.
You think about history, going 100 years back, 1000 years back, 2000 years back. They were here, alive. Not so big then, perhaps not so impressive, but here to bear witness.
And in your head, you keep hearing “…how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ…”
There are no words. Not really. You try your best, but how do you communicate the reality of it? The massiveness of it? The constancy of it? I wonder sometimes if that’s really why I sing, for release of joy, that music inside. But the scope of it, how do you show someone that? How it’s amazing, wonderful, and yet beyond all comprehension?
And then you see BIG TREES. And though they pale in comparison to Christ’s love, there’s something about them. A glimpse? A hint? A wink?