stick-tree suburbia

A few weeks ago I went for an early afternoon stroller-jog around my usual loop. My lungs hoarded and squandered the summer air as my shoes pounded the streets through the older section of our small town. I looked up; the tableau was picturesque--straight off the cover of a watered-down, inspirational devotional you might find in a Christian bookstore: sun glimmering through the wind-dancing leaves of a vested oak tree.

I'm sure you've seen it, and so had I, but for some reason it maintained my gaze as the phil&teds wavered off its once-efficient line and tugged me from my trance. I contrasted this neighborhood with the newer subdivision just south of it, where suburban houses are a repetition of piled boxes and triangles whose monstrous fronts are only highlighted by the token stick tree stuck in manicured front lawns. It was like a snippet out of Rod Dreher's Crunchy Cons (I loaned my copy to a loved one, or I'd include a quote about the "McMansions").

In the old section of town, varied patterns of the mature homes peek from shady undergrowth, and thick limbs dwarf the roofs behind. Towering trees command respectful nods, and wandering eyes are drawn up. "Huh, how appropriate," I muse.

In addition to the aesthetics of the creative designs those homes provide, I was struck how directed to an Other I was looking up at those deep-rooted shaders. They forced me to look outside myself--as opposed to suburbia, where superficial solutions come from gray concrete, bland vinyl, and melting asphalt.

Make no mistake, I'm in full agreement suburbia has its proper place; in fact, our family is hemmed into a 15-year-old subdivision--where thankfully, its trees have outgrown flimsy stakes. I hope our next home is tucked in a place with an abundance of seasoned trees which remind us to look outside ourselves, beyond materialism, and upward. If not, I'm sure the Lord will accommodate in our future home.