Well, like I mentioned before the sermon on Sunday, we lost another tree at the Benedict estate this past weekend. ☹

One of the things that first attracted Pam and me to our home on Cedar Avenue was the trees. We only have a third of an acre in a development-styled neighborhood, but when we bought the house, the property had twelve large, mature trees. Combined with a sweeping panorama of Lancaster County farmland behind us, it felt almost like living in a park.

But over the years, those trees have taken a beating.

A willow came down before we even moved in. An ash succumbed to the emerald ash borer. I removed three towering pines that had overgrown and crowded the house and were constantly filling the gutters with needles. And more recently, I cut down a maple so my vegetable garden could finally get enough sunlight.

Then came this past weekend’s mega storm.

At the height of it, we could actually feel the concussion of the wind buffeting the house. Pam was viewing the storm through our downstairs sliding glass door when it happen. Over the roar of the wind came a loud, thunderous crack, and she saw the maple in our backyard simply snapped in two.

This one surprised me.

It was a beautiful, perfectly formed maple that turned brilliant orange every fall. It shaded part of the yard, screened the neighbors, and, as far as I could tell, was one of the healthiest trees on the property. We sure will miss that one.

As the rain let up, I sloshed through the soaked grass to inspect the damage as the evening light faded away.

The moment I saw the broken trunk, I couldn’t help but say out loud, “Ah… I see.”

The problem hadn’t started in the storm.

Apparently, years earlier, at the point where the trunk divided, something had damaged the tree. Over time, water had slowly seeped into the crack, and the heartwood began to rot. Like a cavity in a tooth, the decay spread beneath the surface where no one could see it.

From the outside, the tree looked strong but inside, it was compromised.

The storm didn’t create the weakness. It simply exposed it. And now, what was previously hidden was obvious… the discolored wood and blackened sawdust testified to a slow compromise that ultimately brought down the tree.

There’s an important warning there for all of us: storms don’t create weaknesses; they reveal them.

Most of us prefer calm, predictable days with minimal friction and pleasant outcomes. We hate it when life goes sideways and our plans unravel. Yet pressure is often one of God’s greatest gifts because it reveals what ordinary days conceal.

An out-of-proportion anger. An anxious heart. A controlling spirit. A defensive posture. A critical spirit. Hurtful words. An unaddressed sin. Under pressure, the unfinished places of our interior world have a way of rising to the surface.

That can be unsettling—but it is also an incredible opportunity.

God doesn’t expose those places to shame us. He exposes them so He can begin the work of repair, renewal, and realignment. Every impatient response, every anxious thought, every sinful reaction becomes an invitation to ask, “Lord, what are You trying to show me? What part of my heart are You desiring to shape into the likeness of Christ?”

Trees don’t get that opportunity. Once the rot reaches the heartwood and the trunk gives way, the damage is done.

But we do.

Because of Christ, what pressure exposes doesn’t have to define us. It can become the starting point for repentance, growth, and deeper dependence on Him. Sometimes the greatest evidence of God’s love isn’t that He keeps us out of the storm. It’s that He uses the storm to reveal what only He can restore.