I’m sitting in my room at a retreat center in California, looking out my window at four stately pines. I come to California for the trees. Well, that and the flowers and bushes and grasses. Let’s face it, California is just showing off. Somebody drew a line where the beauty stopped and called it Nevada. Now don’t get butt-hurt, my Nevada friends, I know our state is beautiful in its own way. In fact, I’m one of the few people that can tell our hills are green right now, but this post is about trees, and…well you know, even though the Pinion Pine is our state tree, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen one.
Anyway, I’ve loved a lot of trees in my life. As a small girl in Colorado, I sat under a huge Weeping Willow. Do you know they actually mist water on you? So beautiful and refreshing. But the thing I remember most is actually finding a buried treasure under that tree! All the neighborhood kids were playing there and someone noticed coins in the dirt. We began digging and money kept turning up. I got a dime and thought I was as rich as a Sultan! (Yep, just aged myself, I know. To my young friends, this would be like being four years old and finding a dollar bill buried in your backyard!)
Then we moved in the hills around Santa Cruz, California, where there were great oaks and fragrant Eucalyptus. I loved nothing more than climbing trees, sitting in trees, reading in trees, bringing home ticks from the trees. (Well, maybe not that last one.)
So, that is why I come to retreat centers in California, to visit, look at and listen to my long-lost friends. “Listen to?” you ask? “Has Jacci wandered off the reservation…again?” Nope, or, well…maybe. I hear a lot from God when I listen to trees. “The rocks and trees cry out,” and all that.
Yesterday I was sitting in front of this stunning tree. I took a picture, which you can see above. It was breathtaking. As I looked, I saw a huge, old, knurled oak behind it. The poor thing still looked mostly dead with a few branches sporting green leaves as if it couldn’t decide if it was going to have enough energy to make it another year. Many of its branches had been sawed off and the bark was knotted and blemished. It reminded me of a battle weary soldier, toughened by life but still standing.
I am that oak, I thought. I feel worn out, battle weary. My skin looks like that bark, my hair like those limbs. I’m not sure I can bloom again one more spring. Then I looked at the beautiful, young, pink tree, so fresh, and new and full of promise. I remember when I was like that tree, young, pretty, full of life. My daughter is like that tree.
Then I heard the still, small voice of God say, “That is how I see you, like the pink tree.” I was shocked. God sees me like that? Young? Beautiful? Full of life? How can it be? I sat with this revelation for a long time. What would it mean for me to see myself that way?
I was reminded of the verse, “Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, can come with me. See! The winter is past, the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth, the season of singing has come…” Song of Songs 2:10-12
The way we see ourselves, is not the only way to be seen. Spend some time listening to a tree today. You may be surprised what you hear.

Why do I drive two hundred miles just to spend a day not talking to anyone? Well, it’s mostly the cookies. Mercy Center, the place I go for my monthly silent retreat, has really good homemade cookies.
Also, I love the napping. I’m not really a napper during my ordinary day at home, but something about being at this retreat center pulls out my inner napper and I sleep really well.
The grounds are beautiful too, which for a Nevadan is very, very important. I’d drive that far just to see some green.
But, something deeper happens there that is hard to explain. It’s like I’m a jar full of dirty,swirrling,poop water and when I get there, the sediment has a chance to settle and I begin to see things more clearly. Not that seeing things more clearly is always pleasant.
Sometimes I see my sin more clearly, or my insecurities, which are easy to hide from myself in my day-to-day life. Sometimes I see my hurts more clearly and it becomes apparent that I need to ask for help. Sometimes I see God more clearly.
During this most recent trip over the mountain to Mercy Center, all of these things happened for me. I took hecka good naps, ate plenty of homemade cookies and let everything settle.
I woke to the most astounding dream. It gave me fodder for prayer, and contemplation that led me to see some deep needs of my heart, of which I wasn’t even aware.
Mercy Center is also where I meet with Barbara. She has been my spiritual director for the last three years. She helps me to process what I see when things settle, and sometimes when they don’t. Most days I walk into her meeting room with absolutely NOTHING to talk about and in ten minutes I’m bawling like a baby. This crying, of course alternates with hysterical laughter because… she’s a lot of fun. All this emotional purging leads to more napping and cookie eating, but boy, do I come home renewed.
The other thing I do at Mercy Center is write. I’ve written a large percentage of my books there. And yesterday, during my talk with Barbara, as I was telling her about my insecurities, my needs, my cookie eating, and what the latest character in my new book is up to when suddenly, it all came together: My characters are 100% me at their deepest core. Any confusion, insecurity, proclivity…yep, if you dig deep enough, it’s mine.
Now THAT was a frightening revelation. I really, honestly thought they were a conglomeration of other people. And, in many ways they are: I borrow names, looks and mannerisms, but in reality, they are mostly me, yep me, in all of my swirling dirt. Put right out there for the whole world to see. What was I thinking to publish this stuff?
So, there you have it. And that’s my two cookies worth!

My boy came home for Christmas. You know the story: he’s the one who walked away from his Army base without a word and went missing for a month, breaking my heart into a million pieces.
That boy, who lived on the streets of NYC with other starving artists having, quote “the time of his life.”
The one who joined the “Occupy” movement and became the spokesperson as the handsome AWOL soldier against the war…that one.
The one who ate delicious ethnic dishes from garbage cans where they’d been tossed by starving (but rich) models.
The one who’d organized a revolution only to have it end with a fizzle instead of not a bang.
The one who became disillusioned and decided to live what he preached, which is much harder than preaching how to live.
The one who decided to organize communities to action with programs like “Music Not Racism,” and found out how hard it is to organize volunteers, especially artists who tend to leave mid-project.
We were afraid when he proposed coming home for Christmas before turning himself in after the New Year.
Afraid to aid and abet.
Afraid it might be awkward after all the pain.
But, we knew if he came home we could make sure he got back to an Army base.
And when we sat on the couch speaking deeply of life and lessons learned, and how this boy missed working, and wants to go to college, and is eager to start anew, and continue advocacy, it felt like a balm to my soul.
Then we had to leave for a week, and he stayed home, and mid-week he was escorted by the police to our jail to await the military.
They told him they knew where he was but decided to let him have Christmas.
And when we heard of his arrest my first response was not sadness, or dismay, but relief – because my fragile heart couldn’t have taken it if he’d changed his mind and gone on another walk-about.
And this is when I learned that we have a classist jail system.
There is one day a week we can jail-skype our son. We can talk for 1/2 hour on that day — at the jail, on a computer.
But, if you have money you can talk to your beloved twice a day from the comfort of your own home computer for nine bucks a pop.
And if you want them to call you, they can call collect.
Or, if you put money in their account they can call you, but there is a surcharge of five bucks to give them money
. And you can set up an email account where they can email you for 55 cents a pop.
So, what do poor families do?
So we signed up to see our beloved twice on his free day. But he pissed off the wrong person and was locked down. The next day we managed a call and found out he’d accidentally walked through a door he was supposed to wait to be opened and got locked down and missed our call. But the lockdown was lifted at four so he sat in front of the computer waiting for our evening call that never came, ‘cause… how would we know?
But when we talked we found out our boy was happy in jail.
After four months on the streets he was enjoying the three meals a day, and lots of sleep, and chess, and backgammon.
And now that he’s been moved to maximum security he has a roommate who loves Jesus and now he uses words like “blessed” in conversation.
And I feel hopeful for this boy/man who will someday have a good story about how this adventure made him into who he was meant to be. And I have peace because I know where he is, and that he is warm, and fed, and I’ve learned that there is nothing worse than not knowing where your child is.
And I am grateful for Christmas.