I needed to go stand beneath my oak trees today, to be reminded of my smallness.
No, to be reassured of my smallness.
You see, I spend the bulk of my days alone: tidying my house, running, practicing music, planning services, reading, and, of course, writing.
I love my life. It is ideally suited to my temperament, perfectly arranged for contemplation, study, and creativity. The downside, though, is that I can become so steeped in myself that I grow anxious.
I’m not alone in this, of course. It is an overlooked fact of human life that the more we think of ourselves, the more anxious we will likely be. As Abigail Shrier’s new book, Bad Therapy: Why the Kids Aren’t Growing Up, points out, there’s not much difference between constantly thinking about yourself and perpetual anxiety. Whatever you think about the rest of her findings, this is an insight worth learning from.
The simple solution? 1) Think about yourself less and 2) think about yourself more accurately.
When I am too consumed with the next chapter I must write, the next reel I must post to satisfy the demands of the algorithm, the next gig I must accept or reject, the next course I must take, the next ministry situation I must endure…
I have to remind myself of my smallness. The fate of the nation is not in my hands. I am a single member in Christ’s Body and he will protect his church. My book will not fail based on one day of writing only to delete it all. My house has been standing for over fifty years and won’t crumble if I postpone a few repairs.
I’m not that important, and this is terrific news.
In our society, where everyone can chase celebrity with a few well-timed posts and the help of AI services, I think we accidentally equate feeling small with feeling anxious. It may be the other way around: we feel so much pressure to be big things that we are paralyzed and prevented from accomplishing even small obligations.
So outside I go to stand beneath my oak trees. They’ve been growing and thriving since long before I was born and they may outlive me yet. I am, beside them, very very small. This is a comfort.
If the fate of my country does not depend on me alone, I can vote (or not vote) my conscience. If the climate is not entirely in my hands, I can recycle and make wise choices without panic. If my house will stand with or without me, I can tidy and care for it with joy rather than terror. If the Church will endure regardless of man, I am free to serve with confidence and gladness. If I trust the Lord to guide my words—slowly and steadily—I can write a book with the thrill of discovery and communication rather than fretting every jot and tittle.
Smallness is a comfort. I don’t think it is self-deprecating anxiety when the psalmist asks God, “What is man that you are mindful of him?” It’s pure, grateful wonder.
What is man? We are small. And yet, God cares for us, has work for us to do, and sets merciful limits on our productivity and power.
As I sit beneath my trees, I am as awestruck as the psalmist. I’ve always had a yearning to be surrounded by trees and attributed this to being raised in cacti-populated Arizona. Now, I’m wondering if this desire wasn’t Providence all along, leading me to a place—geographical as well as spiritual—of dependence and contentment. Nearly three years ago, he suddenly plucked me from my desert home and put me in a quirky old house on a hill, nestled between four towering oak trees.
The Great Gardener knew all along that I’d be too often overwhelmed by my own mind—too often tempted toward “bigness”—so he planted me among the oak trees.
To conclude, here are two favorite songs celebrating oak trees:
Ryanne Molinari 