A Fresh Perspective
Jesus’s Invitation to Purpose and Fruitfulness in the Mundane
by Julie Klein
My gaze continues to stretch upward. My eyes settle upon a giant standing guard over my neighborhood nature trail—a living organism puzzled together by millions of cellulose fibers. It is a massive tree, expansive enough to support a substantial tree house. Indecision rears its head as I draw my attention to my aching back and knees—the fate of a middle-aged mother of active children. And still I ponder, Can I actually climb up there? Am I welcome in that space? Or should I just stay here on the ground?
On this particular solitary walk, I take a gamble. What if this tree house is also meant for me to dwell in? What if I thirst for a different perspective from up there? What if I, too, yearn for the wonder my kids experience every time we pass by and they quickly stake their claim on the tree house?
I take a risk and climb, though my knees clearly protest when all is said and done. I quickly scrape the mud off my boots, and it swiftly falls to the ground. I am no longer in contact with the ground, so I let the mud return to its rightful place.
I take a moment to pause—to dwell in this magical space. The tree house has been meticulously patched together by scavenged and repurposed wood. Branches are painstakingly lined up to create a barrier on one side. A few tarps are haphazardly draped across the top to protect the main platform from the relentless Pacific Northwest rainfall. The arms of the tree stretch out to support the handiwork of all who have wandered the trail and stopped to contribute their share to this place of respite.
I settle into a comfortable position and stare at the trees beyond the one that tenderly holds me. The trees resemble vines as they twist and reach high up in the sky. It is winter. They stand tall and proud—barren—while their fallen leaves decay around them. In fact, they seem more beautiful because they stand upright, unfazed by their lack of covering.
I secretly wish I could feel this carefree.
I take in aspects of the natural landscape surrounding me that I would have missed if I had chosen to stay on the ground. To my left, a ravine leads to a swiftly flowing river. To my right, a grove of evergreens seems to huddle together as if trading secrets among themselves. In this moment I feel a kindredness with the trees. I yearn to feel the lightness the natural world provides. I, too, want to hang out with the birds and the clouds just out of reach. I want to feel the sun just a tad bit closer to my face.
I’ve forever wondered what it looks like from up here. Until now, it was not my territory to behold. It was theirs. It was made for the youthful, imaginative minds that scurry through this part of the trail.
Or so I thought.
As a parent of young children, I walk through the daily itinerary of constant chaos on the ground. I practically miss the more expansive views—the landscape beyond the square foot of ground I occupy on my daily parenting rounds. Sometimes I miss the point of it all.
As the age-old saying goes, I miss the forest for the trees.
I want to see more beyond the urgent requests of three strong-willed children tugging at my sides all day. Because at times all I can see are . . .
The piles of shoes that need to be picked up.
The crumbs under the table that should be vacuumed.
The baskets of clothes at my feet waiting to be folded.
The helplessness I feel as my children experience relentless meltdowns.
The guilt I feel as a yelling match ensues—I, yelling at my children for not listening, and they, yelling at me for not understanding them.
When my perspective is focused on the ground and all that needs to be done, the monotony of my current situation steals my attention. I can’t seem to access the why of it all. I am unable to shift my perspective and see hope beyond the sinking boat I’m in.
As I bring my attention back to the space that has offered me a temporary respite from the tediousness of the ground, I let out a long exhale. Well, I’ll be darned. I suppose this tree house—a hopeful perspective beyond the ground—is here for me to encounter too.
There is a familiar narrative in John 5, where Jesus heals a hopeless man who has been lying helplessly by a healing pool for years. “Here a great number of disabled people used to lie—the blind, the lame, the paralyzed. One who was there had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, ‘Do you want to get well?’ ‘Sir,’ the invalid replied, ‘I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me’” (John 5:3–7).
I can only imagine the man’s point of view while he is forced to dwell daily on the ground. His face must be marked with dust, stirred up every time people stampede alongside him to reach the waters—a reminder that he belongs on the ground. I bet he wonders if things will ever change. Maybe he contemplates what it would be like to see the world from a perspective beyond his place in the dirt.
Jesus goes on to firmly reply, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk” (v. 8). At once, the man is healed. He picks up his mat and starts to walk.
Quite disoriented at first, I imagine he stumbles, pulling his mat a bit closer to his side, afraid to let go of his one and only possession. His eyes narrow as he orients himself to a new perspective of the world. To his left, he observes a landscape of hills, a pattern of shapes he has never seen before. To his right, he sees a grove of trees, bright green hues that stand in sharp contrast to the brown dirt he is forced to look upon day in and day out. Maybe he cautiously comments, “Am I welcome up here too? Is it okay to stand up? Or should I have simply stayed on the ground?”
I imagine Jesus responds, “Precious child, of course you are welcome. You can now see life from a different perspective. All you have to do is accept my invitation and walk.”
An encounter with Jesus literally alters his perspective. He can now gaze upon the wonders of the world beyond the place he has occupied on the ground for so long. This man is now able to walk and see things ahead of him—a little less hindered, a little more hopeful.
Isn’t that just like Jesus—to always offer us a new perspective? He can lend us a new vantage point. He gently lifts us off the ground so we can see beyond our current circumstances. When we look upon him, when we dwell with him, he invites us to get up and walk.
We have no choice but to see the forest through the trees.
As a mother of young children, paralyzed by my duties on the ground, I find it hard to see what’s ahead and the purpose behind it all. However, as it turns out, I can shift my perspective as I tend to my daily duties.
I can choose where and what I dwell on. Often, we forget this. At least I do.
Jesus offers us a higher vantage point so we can see beyond our current circumstances.
I don’t need to escape among the trees every time I feel overwhelmed. Though I must add, a dose of nature is always life-giving and necessary.
Instead, when I spend time with Jesus—the true vine—I find hope right where I am. Jesus reminds us in John 15:1, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener.” And then a few verses later, he says, “Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me” (v. 4).
He is the tall vine that bears no coverings or distractions. He comes just as he is. When I spend time with the Tree of Life, I can see things a little more clearly and can be a little more hopeful. When he shifts my perspective, it is then that I can bear fruit.
As Jesus bends low among us to serve us, I, too, can bend low to serve those in my care when I pick up shoes, fold clothes, and vacuum crumbs. . . .
For with this act, I bear fruit.
As Jesus chooses presence with us, I, too, can choose to be patiently present with my children during their intense meltdowns, knowing I help them experience safety and love as they spiral out of control.
For with this act, I bear fruit.
As Jesus always gently forgives, I, too, can repair with my children as I ask for forgiveness for yelling at them and gently forgive them for their part as well.
For with this act, I bear fruit.
As we traverse the cracks of this fractured world, Jesus encourages us to always keep our focus on him. Instead of feeling bombarded by these tedious moments, I can see purpose in my role as a mother, called to dwell with my children and love them through simple acts in this very space and time.
In these moments, I bear fruit and generate a legacy of love.
I finally imagine the paralyzed man walking away from Jesus with a hop in his step as he ponders his newfound freedom.
Maybe he sighs, Well, I’ll be darned. I suppose this view—a perspective beyond the ground—is here for me to encounter too.
Julie Klein lives outside of Seattle, Washington, with her husband and three children. @julielynnklein
Scripture quotations are from the New International Version of the Bible.