The Monday Tree

I have a hickory tree that stands in the back of the pasture, positioned to throw shade on me as I come through the back gate on Clifford, my tractor. From that angle, my Monday tree looks strong: bark tight, canopy full, trunk straight as a telephone pole. From a distance, it stands proud among the other hickories and oaks dappled across the pasture beyond.

Even up close, at eye level where ordinary life happens, it still looks good until you start to notice things. When I look upward into the canopy, my figurative glance toward heaven, I see imbalance—branches that should be full and stretch toward the sky lean heavy to one side. Looking closer, some twist oddly, as though the tree’s ambitions have gone awry from the roots.

A walk around to the other side tells the truth. Along the bottom ten feet, the trunk is distorted, concave, hollow, pithy, eaten from within. The bark, curled at the edges, still looks respectable, but the wood inside is soft and pitted by ants that have been busy far too long.

We are the tree. From the distant pasture gate, in the company of peers, and coming off a weekend’s restful light, we can appear sound, collected, ready to take on the world. Yet Monday morning, or any workday, if we turn a slow circle and look again—especially from heaven’s perspective—the imbalance becomes clear. Twisted over time, we see how easily contentment fades. It is rarely lost all at once; it decays quietly, from the center outward, whenever our loves drift out of order.

Paul wrote that he had learned to be content in every circumstance. That word “learned” matters. Contentment isn’t inherited. It’s formed in the steady repetition of trust when life refuses to go according to plan. Jesus said that where our treasure is, there our heart will be also. The two always travel together. Whatever we value most becomes what we serve.

That’s what Augustine called the order of loves—and what Os Guinness later reframed for modern work. He said vocation is not a ladder to climb but a compass to steer by. When love for God leads, ambition finds its proper place. When work becomes identity, the compass spins. Ordered love steadies it again.

Every Monday offers a small invitation to look again. To walk around the tree, to notice what has leaned too far toward approval or control. This isn’t guilt work; it’s grace work. Noticing the lean is what keeps the trunk sound.

The Monday Tree still stands in my pasture. From one side it looks perfect; from another it still needs work. Maybe that’s how contentment grows—ring by ring, through the quiet discipline of looking again and letting grace keep the order.

****** Next time in the Work Matters series, we’ll talk about what happens after devotion takes root — the quiet reward of service.

If you’ve been learning to stand a little straighter, join me next time as we talk about the reckoning that restores balance and quiet peace.

I’ll be sharing more reflections like this on work, calling, and leadership. If you’d like to follow along, the best way is to connect with and follow me on LinkedIn.