by Ami Atkins Wickiser
AFTER THE ASHES, AN OAK OF RIGHTEOUSNESS
I was wreckage, crumpled on a frigid bathroom floor, sobbing. Emotional pain so deep it was physical, crashed wave upon wave, crushing, threatening to drown me. I was not pregnant.
After trying for a year and a half, each month the tell-tale red streaks brought with them varying degrees of disappointment, tears, and sometimes profound struggle.
But this was a Category Five, widow-making hurricane. My husband was dead, and now, any possibility of a child with him was also dead. There would be no new life to give me reason to live.
“Why, God? Why could you not give me a piece of him? Why is there no child with his smile or his eyes? How is this possibly good?” Desperate pleas tumbled one after the other.
It had only been a week since Jon died, and I was a tree, ripped from the ground, bashed and thrown about by the typhoon. Now, even the hope of pregnancy shattered like glass. The curly-headed, blue-eyed, little boy of my imagination would never exist.
God had taken it all. I lay on cold tiles, not only grieving my husband but every dream I’d ever formed. I would never be a mother. I would grow old alone. I grieved the t-ball games Jon would never coach, the diapers he would never change, the babies who’d never sleep on his chest.
“God, this is too big! I’m drowning! Just let me die.”
Frantically, I grasped a figment of grace, flickering dimly in the corner of my mind.
God is good. He is doing good. Jesus satisfies. While anguish was so raw, it was the only bit of truth I could wrap my mind around. I said it out loud.
“God, you are good. You are doing good. You satisfy.”
A tiny root stretched across the floor, found a crack, and dug itself through the foundation into the soil. Grace was tangible, and peace flooded my soul.
About a week later, my pastor and his daughter stood at my door, bearing a gift. With puffy eyes, unwashed hair, and clothed in sackcloth and ashes, I willed my brain to push the fog away and hear his words. In his hand, he held a beautiful, leather-bound journal, embossed in gold with a sprawling oak tree.
“The tree symbolizes the far-reaching influence of Jon’s death. A seed falls to the ground and dies, but from death springs abundant life. I think God will grow a tree ridiculously more beautiful than we know. Jon’s life and death. Your life. The gospel will explode, and there will be abundant fruit. Ami, God’s going to use this. And He’ll use you.”
I had no words to thank him for such a touching gift, but I doubt I believed him then. There was no life beneath the ashes.
A tree can be reduced to cinders in minutes, a mere glimmer of time. Fire sweeps through, destroying something strong and lovely. From all appearances, the tree is dead; or at least, it is so severely debilitated that it may never produce foliage again.
That was me, ashes in an instant.
Ashes in an instant, but it takes many years to grow a mature tree. The new sprout must be tenderly cared for, lest it be trampled underfoot and die. Growing means weathering harsh winters, droughts, and fierce storms. It takes at least twenty years (and sometimes up to fifty) for an oak tree to produce acorns. That’s a long time to wait for fruit.
The death of a young spouse is any number of natural disasters rolled into one. It’s a hurricane, ripping oaks from the ground. It’s a fire, consuming them in an instant. It’s a tornado, hurling full-grown trees across the sky. Uprooted is an understatement.
Fruit? Who cared about fruit?
But God tenderly planted me beside the stream once again. He caused roots to dig down deep, searching for living water. And He was there, bubbling forth an abundant river. He was there, flooding me with life and precise care.
Day by day, roots pushed deeper. Day by day, a new sprout grew. The storm raged for countless months, abating then rising again, abating and rising again. But the Arborist stood strong, always covering the little sprout.
Over a decade later, I still want “instant tree.” I want to know what God is doing. Yet, just as it takes time to grow a tree, apparently it takes time to grow me. There is beauty even in the growth. Each year brings new blossoms and fresh green leaves. The colors of fall are magnificent.
“That they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.” (Isaiah 61:3)
Why oak? Why didn’t God say willow tree or silver maple or spruce? Oaks are symbols of strength and endurance. They grow to massive heights, up to 100 feet tall, and spread 150 feet across. And as anyone who’s ever desired quality furniture knows, oaks have some of the strongest wood on earth.
Likewise, a sprout budding from the stump of a burned (or cut down) tree grows significantly faster than its counterpart budding from an acorn.
Perhaps I’ve grown back faster? Perhaps I’m a tree spreading its shade, producing fruit?
This is what God is committed to, not just shaping and growing me, but a people. He’s committed to His church. He makes it fit to be with Him. He spreads its influence through the nations. And He is passionate about His own glory. He makes oaks of righteousness for His renown.
Therefore, I’m learning to embrace sanctification in all its forms, for God will complete the work He began. He made me a citizen of the kingdom, a part of a people, totally set apart for Himself.
He’s making me evergreen, with leaves that do not wither, and in due season will produce much fruit (Psalm 1; Jeremiah 17).
It’s a transformation empowered only by Jesus, and it’s possible only because He was cut down. But He sprouted again from the stump of Jesse, a tree to give shade to all the earth.
One day, I’ll be never-ending new, a tree that can never be uprooted again. And all of this because He’s deemed it so. And all of this because He says it brings Him praise.
What an incomprehensible thing to think that the God who is already exalted, who already has all honor, would cause this faltering, weak, easily damaged sprout to magnify Him.
What an incomprehensible thing to be so loved by God, by a good God who satisfies.
AMI ATKINS WICKISER
Ami Atkins Wickiser is a former young widow, wife, and homeschool mom to four spicy children. She excels at weaving story with Scriptural truth. Ami and her family live in the St. Louis area and worship at Redeemer Church of Waterloo. She also has experience as a developmental therapist and teacher. Ami is passionate about women’s ministry, teaching the Word, and helping others apply the gospel to suffering. Her writing has also been featured on Revive Our Hearts, The Gospel Coalition, Risen Motherhood, and Gospel Centered Discipleship, among others. You can find her on her website, Instagram, or Substack.