I drove into town today specifically to see a tree.

An acquaintance had mentioned a tree in the city, next to the tennis courts. Once I saw his photos, I knew I had to lay hands on this tree.

As I sat in the car explaining this to my spouse on my cell phone, I was met with the “uh huh” of a man who thought I was nuts.

I’m not nuts – I love trees! Ancient trees, 200 years or older, are worthy of honor and respect.

As I stepped out of the car, I was struck by how unimposing it looked. Low to the ground, it’s branches bent down to the sandy ground, stretching out longer than the tree was tall.

I could imagine this tree during the dozens of hurricanes it’s survived, hunkered down, almost clasping the ground with its elbow like bends in the tangle of its branches.

I had to duck these branches to get to the trunk, and there was a light rustle of the stiff oak leaves as they filtered the sun, which barely shone through the canopy.

The trunk was spotted with moss and lichen, and rough from pockmarks that scarred it over the years it had battled the wind. I reverently placed my hand on the bark, and I looked up to the top of the tree, thanking it for its beauty. It’s tenacity. It’s sprawling anonymity, tucked next to a tennis court.

It was a cold day, but it was time well spend to spend a few minutes honoring one of God’s great creations.