We Sit in the Shade of Trees We Did Not Plant

There’s nothing quite like the combination of surprise and nostalgia tucked inside the portion of Facebook called “memories”. Every time I remember to check the daily collection of “on this day” posts, it’s like opening a time capsule of old photos, status updates I’ve long forgotten, and captions dating back to those awkward middle school days.

Last month, with a single click, I was transported to my college graduation. “10 Years Ago Today,” Facebook declared. “How in the actual world can that be possible?” I said to my computer screen. And yet the pixels told the truth and the calendar confirmed it: A decade has passed since I donned a cap and gown, slipped into red high heels, walked across the stage (while fervently praying I wouldn’t trip) and received a piece of paper to mark the conclusion of four incredible, difficult, beautiful, and life-changing years.

Time is a funny thing, both slow and stretching and shockingly quick. Blink and suddenly the present becomes past. Somehow, though, in the decade of days since commencement, two sentences from that day have stayed in my memory (no Facebook app needed).

I thought of one line recently as I sat in a classroom two buildings away from the stage I danced barefoot on in shows every spring and then carefully crossed in heels that one morning in May. Truth be told, I’ve thought of it hundreds of times, because the seasons keep shifting and the reminder remains.

On a May day ten years ago, our beloved college president offered this line as an encouragement and an invitation to go and do the same for the ones who come behind:

“We sit in the shade of trees we did not plant.”

In other words, because of the seeds sown generations ago, we’re able to find a little bit of respite from the heat. Because others came before us, watering and tending with care, we get to rest and enjoy beauty we can’t sign our names to. Our right-now lives are changed because someone somewhere at some point gave sacrificially and showed up faithfully.

Once upon a time, someone planted a seed, and now we sit in its shade.

There are dozens of women who have shaped me in some way, often through simply observing how they live their regular daily lives. Still there are generations more, like the early Christian women martyrs I learned about in that classroom last fall, whose legacy lives on like branches growing out and up and on and on. When I wrote about the women, I hoped to do so in a way that encouraged us to listen to their echo, to slow down long enough that we don’t miss the message they gave everything to declare and, to the death, refused to deny: the Kingdom will not be shaken.

But today, as I read those fall words that hold true and consider a decades-old line about seeds and shade, an unexpected connection comes to mind. In Mark 4, after telling the parable of the sower and the soils, Jesus said:

“How can I show you what the kingdom of God is like? What story can I use to explain it? The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, the smallest seed you plant in the ground. But when planted, this seed grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants. It produces large branches, and the wild birds can make nests in its shade.”
Mark 4:30-32 NCV

In case we missed the surprising shift from big and grand to tiny ordinary things that really do change history, the one who is called both Gardener and King assures us it’s true:

“The kingdom of God is like someone who plants seed in the ground.”
Mark 4:26 NCV

Ten years ago, hours before crossing the stage, I emailed our college president to say thank you for those four full years. Within minutes, he replied with a prayer specific to what I shared, alongside a note of personal encouragement to me. The only other line I remember from graduation morning? It wasn’t declared in an auditorium. Instead, tucked quietly inside an email, he wrote “You are wired for glory” before commissioning me into the next chapter.

Somehow, he made time during commencement weekend to plant a seed of truth and encouragement. It wasn’t for show or to be known – he simply saw and stopped, and then spoke words I’ll never forget and want to pass along to you today.

Each of us is wired for glory. Each of us is invited and commissioned to plant seeds of kindness, love, encouragement, and truth. We may not get to see the branches that eventually stretch to offer shade, but what would happen if we chose to trust the timeline to the Gardener?

What if we dared to push back against the widely seen, the popular, and the pixelated, by choosing the smaller things?

Few of us will sit in the shade of trees we ourselves planted, but every single day we walk a path and rest in the shade that was made for us long ago by names we’ll likely never know.

May we go and do the same.

You are wired for glory, friend. Let’s plant some seeds.