The Mighty Sequoia: Lessons in Life & Leadership

Part 6 in my National Parks blog series

After visiting three national parks in three days—Pinnacles, Sequoia, and King’s Canyon—I am now back in the Bay Area for a wedding today and a workshop on Tuesday. I have left the native landscapes of Central California, but Central California hasn’t left me.

Standing tall in my memory are those tree giants, the mighty sequoia. Elders of the forest, these ancient cypress can rise 250-300 feet tall and be as much as 2,000, even 3,000 years old. I shared earlier (in the Sequoia National Park blog) how I moved from shock and awe to deeper observation and curiosity. How do they do it, live and grow for thousands of years?

Some of the answer is plainly evident. All the older trees have scars. And not just a little nick here or there. These are coal black, deep cut, long scars, sometimes running up fifty feet, sometimes drilling deep holes in the trunk, and most remarkably, sometimes cutting all the way through the tree. Some gashes are so large you can walk through them. These are scars born from intense wildfires that have burned through the ages.

An alternate title for this piece could be, “Fire and Water.” This is the part about the fire. I’ll get to the water.

These trees, I learned, not only survived the fires. They thrived. In fact, they need the fires to survive as a species. Fire clears the brush that builds up on the forest floor, choking out new growth trees. Fire melts the resin that coats the sequoia seeds, releasing them to connect with the soil and begin to grow. Without fire, they remain dormant.

Fire suppression efforts over the last century have prevented new growth trees. Forest rangers now do controlled burns to restore the natural forces that bear life in the sequoia groves.

I can’t help but to think what life and leadership lessons we can draw. How do we think about the fires of life, those intense challenges—the loss of a job, an economic crisis, a business loss, inter-personal drama, health scares, etc.—that sometimes rage in our lives? Our instinct is fire suppression. Avoid. Protect. Medicate.

What if, like the mighty sequoia, we were meant to embrace the fire rather than suppress it?

The Bible speaks of being “refined by fire” (1 Peter 1:7) for personal and spiritual growth. James 1:2-4 reads,

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

I used to read these and similar passages from a distance. Accept pain and challenges, that I could understand. But to embrace them? To find joy in those dark places? How can this make sense??

But ancient wisdom teaches that fire can produce resilience, wisdom and maturity, if we choose.

One thing I found remarkable about the trees is the bark. I came across a felled sequoia, which gave me a way to get up close to the whole tree. The outer layer was soft and spongy. I assumed that the hard outer bark had been harvested by park rangers for some project. Then I began to walk up close to the standing trees. I reached out to feel the bark. These, too, were soft, moist and spongy, with a very thin, almost translucent, outer skin.

I was shocked. I’d seen the armor bark of the surrounding pine trees. I assumed the sequoias would be even harder, stronger. Yet here they are, soft and accessible, despite the threat of fire. Something in that moist outer coat enables that sequoia to withstand fires that destroy other species.

But it comes at a cost. Those deep scars, those holes and tunnels burnt into the trunk. Here’s what I saw. The tree survives because it is willing to give up a part of itself. As long as there are parts that connect to the roots below and to the branches above, life-giving nutrients continue to flow.

What does that look like for us? I spent all of my younger years building up a protective outer layer. Dad leaves the family, four kids under six. Insecure at school. Cut from the soccer team. Not sure where to fit in. Each moment adding layers to the wall. By the time I graduated college, I had the appearance of strength and success on the outside, but a deep questioning hidden below that outer layer.

As I grew in the Christan faith that I came to in my young 20s, I saw a different model in Jesus. He did not fly through life like a super. Just the opposite, in fact. He came in weakness and humility. As prophesied by Isaiah,

He grew up before him like a tender shoot,
    and like a root out of dry ground.
He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
    nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.
He was despised and rejected by mankind,
    a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.
Like one from whom people hide their faces
    he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.

Isaiah 53:2-3

Jesus shared his thoughts, his hurts, his uncertainties, with the trusted circle he had built around him. Go to Gethsemane and see for yourself (Mark 14:32–42). His strength came not from hardening but from connecting, with the Father above and with friends around. He had the bark of a sequoia, soft and moist, accessible, resilient.

The fires came, and so did the scars. “…by his wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5) Scars that bear witness to the suffering. Scars that provide life.

This is a style of leadership, and of life.

There are other forms, other ways of seeking success. One is to be so forward-looking, so optimistic, so determined to keep ourselves and people around us moving forward that we minimize pain and loss and hide our scars. We may generate perspiration with this approach but never inspiration. Eventually, hidden scars lead to detachment and burnout.

Then there’s the hardened, blustery, aggressive, threatening, manipulative style of strength and power. It’s all the rage now. This blitzkrieg approach can produce quick results as people act in fear or fealty. Lines are drawn. Winners and losers are loudly declared. Success is self-proclaimed. There are no scars because no weakness dare be shown. Any who fall off the path disappear.

Let’s see what stands the test of time.

I choose the way of the sequoia, and the way of the Son. To stay soft in the storm. To be willing to take the hits. To show kindness and empathy when others are down. Here is the fertile ground where trust, respect, character, competency, and meaningful connections grow. Here is where scars and tears produce new branches that rise to new heights. Here is where strength shows up as courage, where frailty is met by resilience, where leadership inspires action rather than demands it.

Now let’s talk about the water. Sequoias thrive in the montane zone of the high Sierra, around 7,000-8,000 feet. This region takes in tremendous amounts of water through rain and, most of all, massive snowfall (20 feet annually) in the winter, providing what these trees need to grow.

Sequioa do not have a taproot reaching for underground water. Their roots systems are surprisingly shallow and can stretch for acres. Being close to the surface, they are purpose-built to take in water from the rain and snow melt. These overlapping root systems also serve as a strong, connected subterranean base that can resist the high winds that threaten to fell the giants.

We often talk about building deep foundations to build high in life and business. And there is wisdom there. But there is also wisdom in building wide, a broad, nourishing network with the strength of overlaying root systems that are better suited to stand against the high winds than standing alone.

How are we in this? Are we building wide? Are we building networks with others who are strong, capable, like-minded, and spiritually generative? Are we building trust and shared wisdom, the kind that shows up in times of need? Or do we try to stand alone and retreat when the storms hit, when we are at our most vulnerable?

We do our best to climate control our lives and work. We seek success and stability. The tree giants offer a different perspective, however. Let the mighty sequoia show us her secrets of growth and grandeur, of longevity and life. Theirs is a story of fire and water, of wide and connected roots, of staying soft even when the heat comes, or especially when the heat comes.  

They stand before us, and they show us their scars. There is no effort to cosmetically repair the damage. The scars tell their story. The scars show what was lost to keep growing. The scars tell the secret of life, of survival, of resilience and growth. When we do the same, others see the secret of our strength.

May we look up and hear the story.