I just got back from a quiet morning near New Hope, Pennsylvania, and I have to tell you, my heart feels full. We took a family trip to Bowman’s Hill Wildflower Preserve, and if you’ve never been, you must go. It is a place where you can feel the quiet strength of creation all around you.
I know it can be draining to contemplate life, as opposed to just living it. We were looking for a little escape, a bit of that Pennsylvania beauty, and a chance to just walk together.
Walking among the massive oaks and maples that make up those old-growth deciduous forests, it just forces you to stop and look up.
The Strength of the Standing Ones
The trees there are enormous. They are the kinds of trees that have seen generations come and go—trees with thick, gnarled bark that tells a story of every storm they’ve weathered. They are so solid, so deeply rooted.
Kyle and I were walking, and he pointed out one giant Red Maple. He was like, “Look at that trunk. It’s been through everything.”
It made me think about our own lives and our marriage. We pray for strength, don’t we? We want to be those standing giants, firm in our faith, able to withstand the winds of doubt, anxiety, or challenge. We want to be like the Eastern Hemlock, constant and green, even when the world around us changes.
We think that strength means being unbroken. We think a life of faith means never falling, never having a crack in our foundation. But I think we’re wired to follow the idea of perfect growth, and sometimes that can keep us stuck in a so-so situation because we’re afraid of what breaking might look like.
But as I was to find out, the real lesson in the forest isn’t just about the ones who are still standing tall.
The Mystery of the Hollow Log
We were maybe a mile into the trail, and Michael was way ahead of us, probably looking at his phone, I’ll be honest. Then he stopped and yelled, “Mom, Dad, look at this!”
He had found something truly amazing. It was a fallen giant—a massive log, likely an old Sycamore or Oak, that had been hollowed out. The tree had died, leaving this incredible shell of wood and bark. It was a scenic, memorable landmark, and we just had to pause.
This hollow log was characteristic of the old forests in Bucks County. It wasn’t just dead wood; it was an entire ecosystem.
This fallen tree, which we might look at and call a loss, was providing a home for tiny creatures, a rich bed for new moss, and a unique habitat where things could thrive hidden from the wind and the rain.
It’s over, they would say. This tree is done. But to me, it became a beautiful, powerful devotional.
Let me paint a picture for you.
We all go through seasons where we feel hollowed out, don’t we? I remember those seven years of infertility, feeling like I had a hole in my heart, or when my father died at 48. The anger and the pain inside had nowhere to go. You feel like the bark is all that’s left—just a shell.
We feel like we’ve failed because we are no longer “standing tall” or “perfectly whole” for the world to see.
But here is the amazing part.
That hollowed-out space, that absence, that is where God does some of His most beautiful work. What he needs is not our perfection, but our availability.
The very thing we think makes us useless—the fact that we are broken and hollow—is what makes us a perfect sanctuary for new life.
Don’t you think we can sometimes feel like that invalid man Jesus met? Maybe we feel paralyzed by anxiety or depression, and we think, “What he needs is a new body,” or “What she needs is a perfect life.”
But Jesus didn’t just see the body in need of a miracle. He saw the person.
And He sees us, too. He sees the beauty in the hollow log. He sees the new life that is about to spring up from the most unexpected places.
I looked at Kyle and Michael standing there, looking into that old log, and I thought, This is us. We are a family of people who have been hollowed out by things we didn’t ask for, but we trusted the Lord to heal us. And because of that, we are a place where new life, new faith, and new hope can grow.
So, if you are feeling hollowed out today, if you feel like a fallen giant, please don’t give up. You are not a loss; you are a sanctuary. You are a foundation. You are perfectly positioned to be a place where God can grow something new and beautiful.
Let’s ponder the moments when God used your deepest pain to create a haven for someone else. That’s the wild, wonderful truth of the Christian life.
It is never too late to be what you might have been, and sometimes, the greatest work happens when we finally allow ourselves to be completely empty so God can fill us up.