Leave it With Him

From Streams in the Desert

I need oil," said an ancient monk; so he planted an olive sapling.

"Lord," he prayed, "it needs rain that its tender roots may drink and swell. Send gentle showers." And the Lord sent gentle showers.

"Lord," prayed the monk, "my tree needs sun. Send sun, I pray Thee."

And the sun shone, gilding the dripping clouds.

"Now frost, my Lord, to brace its tissues," cried the monk.

And behold, the little tree stood sparkling with frost, but at evening it died.

Then the monk sought the cell of a brother monk, and told his strange experience.

"I, too, planted a little tree," he said, "and see! it thrives well. But I entrust my tree to its God. He who made it knows better what it needs than a man like me. I laid no condition. I fixed not ways or means. 'Lord, send what it needs,' I prayed, 'storm or sunshine, wind, rain, or frost. Thou hast made it and Thou dost know.'"

Which tree are you?