When I was eight, I found a gutted white Volkswagen Beetle deep in the forest. It must have driven off the logging road above, shot down the ravine and hit the old-growth Cedar tree at the bottom. Like Nancy Drew, I studied the scarred bark sure there was a mystery to solve and bones to find. I rummaged through the car's glove compartment, back seat, and trunk searching for clues. I dug holes in the surrounding soil and followed imagined leads to waterfalls, hidden culverts and crooked, gnarled driftwood skeletons. Scribbles and sketches filled the pages of my notebook but without hard evidence the narrative fell flat. I recently read about a nineteenth-century fossil hunter named Mary Anning. At thirteen-years-old, she unearthed Jurassic fossils in the cliffs along the English Channel. No one had ever seen creatures like this before. History and science needed to be rewritten. Mary's poverty, the lack of credit she received, and her simple tools didn't stop her. She'd hunt for bones her whole life.
I relate to Mary and her desire to know the truth. My stomach twisted as I stared at the bone sculpture in Dachau concentration camp's entrance. I'd studied the Holocaust before but standing on the ground where it began was different. So was walking the halls of Anne Frank's secret annex. The place she hid from the Nazis for twenty-four months with her family, the Van Pels and Fritz Pfeffer. I moved silently through the museum and allowed my textbooks to wrap themselves in skin. Excerpts of Anne's diary were posted throughout. They told Anne's human story of fights with her mother, sister and the other household members. Of ordinary study sessions, self-doubt and fiery anger. Of love and of dreams about a post-war world. Her humanity drew me in. And I wanted a different ending. What if? What if she wasn't betrayed? What if she survived the camps? As a writer, and especially as one who often writes about Jesus, I like stories with wrapped corners and tied string. I want good to win. Like Mary and Anne, I've dreamed big dreams only to find bones I didn't know what to do with. I've tried to make sense of the senseless. And I've had to grow up without all the answers. So I look again at Jesus and reevaluate my simple narratives. I relearn that Jesus was betrayed for a few coins by one of his closest friends. That sweat, tears and blood filled his prayers. And that a crowd would cry, "Crucify." His bones would hang on a cut tree. His disciples would have no real answers for days after his death and his family would be overcome with grief. Bones are a significant part of Jesus's story. Something else I learned is that Isaiah named Jesus the Branch. The One who would rise out of the stump of Jesse and bear fruit. Growth out of what seems an end. I like this metaphor. God enters our human story—into a specific lineage at a specific time. He wears flesh and bones and shows us how to live in a world that is sometimes overwhelmingly dark. Anne will never see freedom. She won't walk her streets again or attend school. Belson-Bergen concentration camp will be her final stop. I read more of her diary. It's hard to believe that she'd still claim good prevails and beauty is greater than misery. Is it true that no one need wait a single moment to make the world better? And then I see the small window in the attic. Such a limited space to find hope and yet Anne does—in a chestnut tree's annual cycle, in the glistening dew of the morning, in a patch of blue sky, and in the silver swoop of seagulls. It's beautiful. Her father, the annex's sole survivor, thought so too. He invited millions to read Anne's words and established this museum. Her story, her strength, and her humanity live on. Decades later, the Anne Frank House will keep the dying chestnut tree alive by germinating the nuts and planting saplings around the world. Hope is powerful. I've spent considerable time digging up the bones in my own story, hands in the dirt, knees pressed into the ground. And it is here that I've learned to see the tree that saved me. To notice its scars but also its strength. I typed a paper for my History of the Weimar Republic class. The night was calm. I thought I'd finish, enjoy a bowl of berry crisp and the flicker of candlelight, but chaos arrived with a BANG. Wood cracked, tires spun and an engine roared. I braced myself and squinted as headlights shone directly through the window and into my eyes. Police sirens followed. I stepped outside. My heart raced. A truck had crashed through the fence, flew down the yard and folded into the tree two-meters in front of my writing window. The engine ran and the vehicle's open door suggested the driver did too. I returned to the house, locked the deadbolt and lay on the couch. What would have happened if not for that tree? I didn't read any spiritual significance into the accident at the time but looking back it speaks to me—to the parts of my story that are out of my control. The dark tumbled in when I wasn't ready for it. I needed an author and a pen stronger than me to hold onto. I needed a God who was close. Flesh and bones close. And then I think of the cross. I think about the ways I know He saved me. Reached in and pulled me out of despair. The details though personal are just as bold as that night with the tree, the truck and the window. I know Jesus lives, not only in a book, but in the complicated pages of my life. In a fossil hunter's search for truth. In a Jewish girl's annex window view. Hope isn't a wistful wish. It’s planted in the chaos. It births in the ashes. And I’ve learned even the barest winter’s branch blooms in Spring.
25 Comments
11/14/2020 09:59:04 am
You asked for my website and I gave you the only info I had to offer. However, this in no way can begin to compare to the blog offering I have just read. That is so powerful, beautifully said, and written. I will look forward to more entries.
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Sarah
11/16/2020 02:09:23 pm
This is amazing! Made me tear up and feel all you were feeling! Your writing is so mesmerizing!
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Janet Anderson
11/19/2020 12:24:45 pm
I love this line: "I've spent considerable time digging up the bones in my own story, hands in the dirt, knees pressed into the ground. And it is here that I've learned to see the tree that saved me. To notice its scars but also its strength."
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Chavon
11/20/2020 07:16:09 am
Janet. What a lovely gift to find your words here today. Thank you friend. Learning to trust God with the seeds and the planting.
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11/24/2020 12:16:00 pm
Beautiful and poetic reflection on digging for truth and meaning.
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11/25/2020 06:03:13 pm
"Flesh and bones close"--yes, that is the God we need and He came to be just that!
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11/26/2020 11:41:19 pm
Christine, Thank you for your thoughtful comment. I'll admit that it made my day.
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11/27/2020 05:37:28 am
Wow- I love the imagery in this piece- especially the idea of the Anne Frank museum putting flesh to the words of her diary. (I immediately craved a visit to the museum myself.) Imagery is something I struggle with as a writer; I believe the answer lies in exploring talented world weavers as yourself. Do you have any books out?
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11/27/2020 06:40:34 am
Candice, this is quite the compliment. I have only just picked up writing again in the last two years. I have no books yet but I help edit an online arts magazine. Happy to chat writing if ever you want. Nice to have friends on the journey.
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Yvonne Morgan
11/27/2020 11:06:20 am
Thanks for sharing this beautiful story. I loved it very much. God bless.
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11/29/2020 02:18:34 am
I like what you say "I know Jesus lives, not only in a book, but in the complicated pages of my life." He is there, even when it doesn't look like it at all!
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11/29/2020 11:57:56 am
Wow! What a powerful story and post. And your sentence "The dark tumbled in when I wasn't ready for it" stopped me in my tracks. I can so relate. Loved reading your work and can't wait to read more!
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Jocelyn
11/29/2020 06:03:19 pm
Beautiful ❤️ Thank you for sharing
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11/30/2020 07:58:39 am
I truly enjoyed reading this. You write beautifully. :)
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11/30/2020 02:00:47 pm
Oh my goodness, this is so good! I love your depictions of Anne Frank and how you relate it to the bones our past. You make me feel like I am there with you and do a wonderful job! I have bones of my past as well and am praying for God to resurrect them to be used for His plan. I don't know how, but I know He will.
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12/3/2020 02:29:15 am
Omygosh what powerful writing, kept me pulled in all the way to the end. Thank you for this encouragement this morning.
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Scott Anderson
1/23/2021 12:25:55 pm
“ The dark tumbled in when I wasn't ready for it. I needed an author and a pen stronger than me to hold onto.”
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Chavon BarryChavon is a new writer from Victoria, British Columbia. She wrestles with simple answers and is learning to listen, to be still with God. Archives
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