We’ve got a small forest of trouble on our property right now—several dead trees, standing there like they still belong, waiting on a professional to come take them down. Turns out you can’t just grab a chainsaw and wing it. Dead trees are unpredictable. They don’t fall where gravity politely suggests; they fall where they feel like it, and usually where you least want them to.
We found this out the hard way. A large dead branch—no storm, no warning—just decided it was time and dropped straight onto the top of my husband’s Jeep. It didn’t total the thing, but it did require what I can only describe as vehicular surgery. A dent here, a shattered window there, and an aggravated husband standing in the driveway staring up at the tree like, really? Today?
Here’s the thing about dead branches: they look like they’re just resting up there, minding their own business, acting all treelike. But they’re not attached to life anymore. They’re not drawing anything up from the roots. They’re just hanging on, held up by habit, by old wood, by nothing that’s actually still growing. And eventually, dead things fall. Usually on Jeeps.
I think a lot of us are carrying a little dead wood, too. Not our whole selves—just certain branches. Old habits, grudges, fears, comparisons—dead wood that we pruned three years ago and it’s somehow grown back.
The dead branches look like part of the tree. They’ve been there so long we forget they’re not actually connected to anything living. And then one day, without warning, they crash down on something—our peace, our relationships, our Tuesday—and we’re left standing in the driveway wondering what just happened.
The good news is we’re not left to free-climb our own branches with a rusty saw and good intentions. Jesus put it plainly:
“I am the true vine, and My Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in Me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit He prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” (John 15:1-2)
God is not up in the tree hacking away out of frustration. He’s a patient, skilled gardener, paying attention to which branches are alive and which ones are just taking up space and blocking the sun from the fruit that’s actually trying to grow.
Pruning isn’t punishment. It’s maintenance.
And He doesn’t need us to identify our own dead branches perfectly before He’ll start. Which is a relief, honestly, because most of us are terrible judges of our own dead wood. We think the thing that’s thriving is actually the problem, and the thing that’s slowly rotting is “just part of who I am.” We need a professional. Thankfully, we have one.
So here’s to letting the Gardener work on our souls every once in a while. Here’s to trusting that what feels like loss—a branch gone, a habit cut, a comfortable dead thing removed—is actually clearing room for something with sap still running through it. Better a planned pruning than an unplanned Jeep incident.
As for the actual trees on our property—the professional showed up this morning. Pray for the Jeep. It’s already been through enough.
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