Trees Part 7

July 20, 2026

One summer in college, our work team of twelve was sent to the northern Michigan woods to help build cabins for a new church camp serving inner-city children.

The camp sat on a pristine lake, far away from any city. It was the only development on that secluded and beautiful water, deep in the forest. Its name was Bambi Lake, and the camp was Bambi Lake Camp.

During the summer, children arrived by bus from the cities, accompanied by adult staff. For one week, they swam, canoed, played games, sang songs, worshiped by the lake, and breathed air that must have felt entirely different from the air back home.

We were officially construction workers during the day, but in the evenings, we helped with the children at the lakeside services down by the dock. We loved that part of the day. After the noise of hammers, saws, and lumber, there was something holy about gathering with children beside the water, under the sky, surrounded by trees.

Bambi Lake Camp reminded me of my own church camp in Alabama—Blue Lake Camp—where I had spent many wonderful weeks growing up. Southern pines surrounded Blue Lake. Northern pines and the pointed tops of spruce and fir trees surrounded Bambi Lake. The trees were different, but the feeling was the same: a lake held in the arms of a forest, a place set apart, a place where young souls could open.

But my Alabama Blue Lake had one unforgettable feature. Across the lake, standing before the dark tree line, was a very high white cross. At night, it was lighted, and its reflection shimmered across the water all the way to us. For me, that cross was more than a structure. It was a presence. It watched over the camp. It reminded us that something larger than ourselves was there.

I began to think that Bambi Lake needed such a cross.

So, after getting permission, my friend and fellow work team member, Daniel Avery and I built one. We made it larger than life, out of thick, wide timbers, and painted it white. Then, together, we tied it across two rowboats and floated it slowly to the opposite side of the lake.

That side of the lake was marshy. There was no solid ground on which to plant it. So, we did something unusual. We chose an existing spruce tree, trimmed it down with a chainsaw, hoisted the cross with ropes, and fastened it to the tree with long nails. The spruce became its hidden support. The tree held the cross upright.

I have thought of that tree many times since.

With the dark green forest behind it, the white cross shone in the sun across Bambi Lake. Later, the camp wired it with electric lights so that it glowed at night. It became a symbol of the camp. It was even printed on Bambi Lake T-shirts.

But to me, its deeper meaning was not simply that we had built a cross. It was that a tree had become the bearer of it.

The spruce, once standing freely in the forest, was cut back and changed. It lost some of its natural shape. But it did not become useless. It became the hidden strength behind a sign of hope. It held up something visible from far away. It helped shine a light across dark water.

Perhaps that is one of the secret ministries of trees. They give themselves. They become shelter, firewood, paper, homes, cradles, tables, altars, and crosses. Even when altered, even when wounded, they can still become instruments of meaning.

Twenty years later, our college work team returned to Bambi Lake for a reunion, bringing our families with us. Daniel and I took our young sons, Patrick and Ben, into a rowboat and paddled across the lake.

We floated beneath the cross and told them the story.

There we were: two fathers, two sons, a white cross, a quiet lake, and a spruce tree still holding it all. I could not have known then how precious that moment would become. I could not have known how memory gathers light around certain scenes and keeps them shining long after the day is gone.

Sometimes we build something in our youth without knowing what it will mean later. Sometimes we fasten hope to whatever will hold it. Sometimes a tree, a lake, a cross, and a child’s face become part of the same prayer.

And sometimes, years later, we realize that what we thought we were building for others was also being built inside us.

Spiritual Practice and Inquiry

What from your earlier life is a part of nature that taught you, held you, or represented part of your true nature?

Prayer

Dear God, I am so thankful to Daniel for being my friend even unto this day. Without his willingness to see the dream come true the cross would never have been made or hoisted up into the tree. Thank You for the story that still fills my heart with wonder.

Amen