The Lord's Voice...

...the Lord's voice rending the oak tree and stripping the forest bare.

I recently took took this photo very early in the morning on an overcast day before sunrise.  It's says something to me of the essence of Lent.  Not long from now I expect to see the tree budding and by Easter, at least here in Texas, new life will have once again sprung forth.

I tried to capture it in black and white, and while I did get some impressive shots I prefer the contrast in this particular photo, though it is dark.

There's something about trees that has always spoken to me of the spiritual... perhaps it's the branches reaching out searching for light or perhaps something in the tree itself that wants to be said, and that has waited for a long time to be spoken, but still remains silent.  Instead what we hear--if we listen well--is the voice of the Lord; it is the voice that strips the oak bare, that which speaks to us in the sacred night, in the quiet moments before daybreak, and in all the seasons of life.

Comments

[Ann]

I love to look at trees against a dusk or pre - dawn ( less often) sky! The contrast can be quite stunning as you have captured here.
And the last line is just beautiful.

[Gabrielle]

Ah, deacon dan, you have just expressed very beautifully what I have been unable to explain to our dear friend JustMe about why I love naked trees against the sky. I could feel it in my soul all my life, to the point of aching, but I could not verbalize it. Merci! :)

[JustMe]

Beautiful sentiments, DDW, along with your intriguing photo.

Beautiful commentary, too. Trees are a long story, aren't they; they're somehow part of one's unknown family. When I see a tree in Iraq backgrounds sent home, I'm doubly relieved. (And puka-shelled tree-huggers were onto something--there was a "Thank You God" in it all.) Still, the birds are made as homeless as my eyes in a tree's wintering, so it's more like the email chicken joke has Hemingway respond as to why the chicken crossed the street: "To die. In the rain. Alone." I'm 100% thankful that our oak tree has clung to hundreds of remnants this year. I hear them rustle. I look out there at night, too, perhaps to know that its barrenness is not death, even if I won't see it one day.. having crossed the road..in the rain... *sigh..