The Resting Tree

Col. John Preston sat atop his horse with his rifle lying on his lap, listening to the distant sound of slave women sing hymns under the white oak tree.

Dozens stood under the trees long branches watching uncle Rube walk across the field carrying the limp body. The man’s curly white hair and long beard flapped in the wind as an evening storm pushed towards them. His long strides carried him up the hill where he laid the body down next to the tree. Two men started shoveling a hole when uncle Rube jerked the shovel from them.

“I brought this child into this world and I will help him out.” Uncle Rube’s eyes told the two younger men there was still life under his paper-thin skin stretched over knobby bones.

- The Resting Tree

After two hours hiking trails in the deep forest surrounding Sugar Hollow State Park, the distant sound a thunder made me turn back towards the parking lot. It was a day to find inspiration and hear God’s voice on the wind between the leaves and branches. It was also a much-needed day to find rest from worry and anxiety from the trail of life. But my plans were going to be cut short by an approaching thunderstorm.

The parking lot was somewhere around a two to three miles from my trial. But after forty-five minutes of hiking different trails, trying to find the one that would lead me out of the forest, panic gripped me as the thunder grew closer, and because I just discovered the same rock formation I stood on forty-five minutes earlier. I decided to try a different route. South was the best direction toward the parking lot, so I hiked off the trail through a thicket of trees and brush trying to find something – anything – to would lead me back to the parking lot. An hour later, legs and feet sore from traversing the ridges and trails, I found a trail that led me to a paved road leading back to the parking lot. By this time, most of the storm had gone around me. So I walked down the road, still a half-mile from the noise and traffic of Bristol, VA, until I spotted a large oak next to the road. The oak stood approximately one hundred feet tall with branches stretching out 15 to 20 feet. A fence enclosed an acre of land surrounding the tree and a plaque was place next to the entrance.

The tree is called The Resting Tree. I had never heard of the tree even though I grew up near Bristol. The plague stated this land was once part of the Preston plantation. Robert Preston, a surveyor appointed by then Virginia Governor Thomas Jefferson, established the plantation in 1773. Robert Preston owned nine slaves and his son, Col. John Preston, who also lived on the plantation owned 17 slaves. The slaves found rest from working the rolling hills of this plantation two times a day under the branches of this tall white oak tree. The tree quickly became know by the slaves as the resting tree. After years of toil on the Preston plantation, the tree became a place of solace – a meeting place for comfort and relief of the burdens of life. Finally, as slaves died, the resting tree took on a new meaning, one of permanent rest. It eventually became known as the first slave cemetery in the Bristol, VA region. It is estimated that over 100 graves surround the tree.

After reading the plague and walking around the tree, I realized my day wasn’t wasted from the storm or from being lost in the forest. I had, in fact, heard the voice of God through the leaves of the old oak tree. He reminded me that those who seek rest in him would find it. And no matter how hard our journey may be, comfort will be given if you only ask.