Grieving the Trees: Embracing Change and Hope

A Knockout Punch

Hurricane Helene delivered a knockout punch to the southeast three weeks ago, and Coffee County is still punch drunk, struggling to recover from the blow. Everyone was affected. Some lost little, others lost a lot, and some lost… well… everything. That last fact makes this post difficult to write, because compared to them, I came out relatively well. Despite feeling a mixture of silliness and selfishness, I’m writing this piece to process, to grieve, to move forward.

Living in Southeast Georgia, hurricanes are a fact of life. Rarely do we have to board up our windows and evacuate, but we stock up on our favorite snacks, fill up the gas tank, and turn on The Weather Channel. My wife and I did this routine, but our eyes widened when the meteorologists reported the storm had shifted to the east. We were now on Helene’s bad side, and she was angry.

Life on the Briarwood Homestead has had its share of storms, but nothing quite prepared us for Helene. We’ve weathered hurricanes before, but this one left a mark that goes deeper than the debris—our trees, the silent sentinels of our land, are gone.

I will never forget the smell that greeted us when we emerged from our house the morning after the storm. It was a blend of fresh rain and even fresher snapped pines. The absence of the once majestic canopy of oaks surrounding our home left me feeling naked, as if all eyes were on me. Helene had battered and bruised my little haven from the outside world. The landscape was unrecognizable. My beloved woods were gone.

We built this place around them, those tall, sturdy oaks and pines that framed our pasture and shaded our afternoons. To see them ripped out of the ground by the force of the storm feels like losing a part of the property’s soul.

The Heart of the Land

Trees aren’t just landmarks here; they’re part of our life. They stand for strength, endurance, and a deep connection to the land. Losing them isn’t just an inconvenience, it’s like losing pieces of our story. I’ve spent hours walking through them, my prayers whispered softly into the stillness of the air. The woods were my retreat from the pressures of life.

Beyond the emotional loss, there was a significant financial hit. Timber that had been growing for decades, trees we had planned to harvest responsibly, were now scattered across the ground, and we were facing the reality of losing thousands of dollars.

From Loss to Opportunity

Sitting there, surrounded by fallen trees, I knew I couldn’t just let it be a loss. I realized that what looked like devastation could become something new. And so, with a chainsaw in hand, I decided to turn this loss into a new venture—a firewood service.

It wasn’t the plan I had envisioned for those trees, but it was a way to honor what was left. Every log I split is a reminder that life, like those trees, is about adaptability. Just because something doesn’t go the way you planned doesn’t mean it can’t still have purpose.

It’s Okay to Grieve

While I’ve found purpose in starting a firewood business, it doesn’t erase the grief. The truth is, it’s okay to grieve our loss, even knowing that others have lost more. There’s a quiet sorrow in walking the land and remembering how it used to look. Those trees were part of the Briarwood story, and I feel their absence deeply. Grief doesn’t need to be justified by comparison; it’s a natural part of facing change and loss.

Faith in the Eternal

And yet, through it all, I’m reminded of a greater truth: this world is temporary. The Bible tells us that the things of this world are passing away (1 John 2:17). As much as I love this little farm, it’s just a small part of a much bigger picture. Storms like Helene remind us that nothing here is permanent. The trees we planted, the buildings we’ve worked on, even our lives—they’re all temporary.

But this realization isn’t meant to discourage us; it’s meant to shift our perspective. Jesus spoke about laying up treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal (Matthew 6:19-21). That’s the foundation we build on—an eternal hope that isn’t shaken by storms, floods, or fallen trees.

As much as I grieve the loss, I also hold on to the truth that my real home isn’t here. My hope is anchored in something greater, and that gives me the strength to rebuild, not just for today, but with an eye on eternity.

Rebuilding with Eternal Hope

Starting the firewood service is more than just a business. It’s a way of reclaiming the land, one piece at a time. But more importantly, it’s a reminder that even when life feels uprooted, there’s hope beyond what we see. We grieve what’s lost, but we rebuild understanding that our true home isn’t here.

In moments like these, we’re reminded of the apostle Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 4:17-18: “For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

It’s this faith that sustains us through the loss. I know that even though the trees are gone, and the landscape of our lives has changed, the eternal promises of God remain unshaken. So, as we rebuild, log by log, we do so with a sense of peace, knowing that while this world is temporary, our faith and hope are grounded in something that will last forever.