Consider the lilies — and one old Montana fir

Tucked into a draw on our Montana property stands a Douglas fir that a forester estimated to be more than 600 years old.

It grows beside a creek, sheltered by surrounding hills from the worst of the wind. The draw stretches back toward the forest and up the mountain, while the opposite hillside rises steeply above it.

God never promised His people a life without storms. He promised His presence in the midst of them. Still, we are tempted to believe the world has somehow spun beyond His control.

It is an easy place to linger.

Long before my father-in-law bought this property, others recognized that. Arrowheads and stone tools have been found nearby over the years. With fresh water, shelter from the wind, and a commanding view of the valley, it was a natural place to camp.

I sometimes wonder who sat beneath those branches centuries ago.

When friends and family visit, I often take them to see the tree. Some stare in wonder. Others shrug.

My father-in-law never shrugged.

He was so taken with the old fir that he made a simple wooden sign and named it “Legacy Tree.”

The name stuck.

Whenever I stand there, I find myself reaching out to touch its weathered trunk.

Sometimes, it helps to touch something living that has survived.

Six centuries have a way of putting things in perspective.

When this tree was young, Christopher Columbus was still trying to persuade Queen Isabella to finance an uncertain voyage across the Atlantic.

While Martin Luther challenged the church in Wittenberg, the tree quietly added another ring beneath its bark.

It stood while America’s founders pledged “their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.”

It was already centuries old before anyone called this land Montana.

Generations passed beneath its branches. Empires rose and fell. Men walked on the moon beneath the same sky that has watched over this tree for more than six centuries.

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History hurried by. The tree kept growing.

It survived fire, lightning, drought, insects, brutal winters, heavy snow, fierce winds, and everything else the Montana mountains could throw at it.

Fallen trees lie scattered across the property. Some finally yielded to age. Others were struck by lightning or brought down by wind and snow.

Why this Douglas fir still stands while others do not is a mystery known only to its creator.

One day, it too will fall.

Until then, it stands because God sustains it.

Jesus told us to consider the lilies of the field and the birds of the air. He pointed to ordinary things people passed every day and used them to reveal extraordinary truths about His Father’s care.

Standing beneath this old fir, I have begun to wonder whether that invitation extends beyond flowers and sparrows.

If our heavenly Father clothes lilies that bloom for only a season;

if He watches over birds that few people notice;

if He has sustained this tree through six centuries of Montana winters, lightning, and fire;

how much more will He sustain His children?

That question lands differently today than it did a few years ago.

We live in an age of perpetual anxiety. Every news cycle insists catastrophe is moments away. Every political fight is described as the final chance to save civilization. Social media rewards outrage.

Fear has become a business model.

Wars rage overseas. Political divisions deepen at home. Each day seems to bring another reason to worry about tomorrow.

Scripture repeatedly tells us, “Do not be afraid.”

The world profits by feeding our fears. Scripture answers by reminding us who reigns.

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God never promised His people a life without storms. He promised His presence in the midst of them.

Still, we are tempted to believe the world has somehow spun beyond His control.

We all endure our own Montana winters and summers filled with lightning: illness, grief, financial strain, broken relationships, uncertain futures, seasons when the wind seems relentless and hope feels scarce.

Standing beneath the old fir, I hear Christ’s words with fresh ears.

Consider the lilies. Consider the birds. And perhaps, if you will permit one Montana addition to the list, consider an old Douglas fir.

Sometimes, it helps to touch something living that has survived.

Each time I leave that quiet draw, I remember that the God who has faithfully sustained that tree throughout its existence has faithfully sustained me throughout mine.

The headlines will keep shouting.

God will remain faithful.