To Be a Tree

Beneath a thin carpet, the concrete floor had no give as my face crashed against it once again. Rolling over quickly to meet his attack, I managed to bring my knee into the space between us as his massive body covered mine. This maneuver bought me all of two seconds as he simply readjusted, wrapped up my flailing arms, and violently shoved my face back into the carpet. Now, fully at his mercy, my arms and legs were contorted into a position I never predicted possible as a sharp wave of pain shocked my entire body.

Uncle.

Not once. Not twice. Not even after three or four times had I enough sense to submit. Five times I went back for more. And five times my small, untrained body served as but a rag doll for this 300-pound marine. My pride throbbed with the swelling pain of defeat. Pain stronger than any rug burn or bruise my body had endured. Pride had driven me to do what no one else in the room had dared. Pride not only had driven me to do the impossible, but the plain stupid. Pride made me go back for more.

There are days when I long for North Carolina. I long to walk campus again under low, arching branches of trees far more experienced in this world than I. Trees that have weathered the strongest of storms and the most perfect spring day. Trees, strong and firm, that have provided for generations of inhabitants. They give shelter, nourishment, and cover from the hot, summer sun. Yet, without the provision of another source, these trees would not be the strong, dependable giants they are today.

For tonight, I love Africa. Walking home from a birthday party with dear friends, we discovered a small shop just outside the medina. While they scoured the store for tablecloths, I was quickly drawn into conversation with the shopkeeper. A rare moment of putting myself aside, I took interest in who he was. Within five minutes, I sat on my friend’s chair, behind his cash register, drinking the tea he had prepared for himself. We talked about his life and family as I enjoyed a moment of victory.

Not every day here is good. But not every day is bad. I just have to keep going back for more. But it’s different now. The prideful ambition that embarrassed me years ago is becoming less of the driving force. Perhaps, God is leading me to discover a new kind of ambition. An ambition fueled by love for others. A holy ambition.

Through the storms and spring days alike, I am learning every day that I must put myself aside. I long to soak up all the living water I can to stand through the ages. I long to be strong and firmly rooted. I long to provide for those in need. I suppose I long to be a tree.