By Rich Bitterman
The road we live on doesn’t go anywhere. That’s not a metaphor. It literally ends—right where the Ozarks slip quietly into Table Rock Lake. Weak cell signal. No traffic. No reason to come unless you mean to. And honestly, we like it that way.
From our little place at the end of the road, you can catch a sliver of lake through the trees if you know where to stand. Trees that creak like old porch rockers. Birds that fill the morning like a hymn. Oaks. Pines. Dead ash trees left behind by the blight. Cedars tangled like old stories. And just about every hardwood you can name.
Most mornings, I sit on the back porch with my coffee and let the birds do the preaching. But yesterday, we did something different. Something I hope outlives me.
We planted two Ozark chinquapin trees.
If you’ve never heard of them, you’re not alone. Most haven’t. But if you talk to the old folks in these hills, they’ll remember. The chinquapin wasn’t just another tree. It was a way of life. Its sweet nuts fell every fall like clockwork—feeding wildlife, filling pockets, fattening livestock, and adding something sweet to a child’s walk to school.
The wood was strong and rot-resistant, used for barns, railroad ties, fence posts. It was a tree that gave and gave and never asked for much. And then, one day, it was gone.
A blight—silent and swift—swept through the Ozarks in the 1960s. Within a decade, the hills were lined with the skeletons of what used to be. Sixty-foot giants left standing like monuments to what once was.
But now, a handful of those trees—rare and stubborn—are still hanging on. And thanks to the work of the Ozark Chinquapin Foundation, the dream of restoration lives again. They’re gathering seeds from survivors, crossing them, testing for blight resistance. And somehow, a couple of those seeds made their way into our refrigerator.
They arrived in the mail months ago, packed carefully in a zip bag with soil. Every week, I’d unzip the bag, shake the dirt loose, blow in some fresh air, whisper a little hope—and tuck them back in the cold. Like they were sleeping, and I was waiting for the thaw.
And finally, the time came.
Joy and I found the right spot—just east of the house where the morning sun hits first. I took a pickaxe to the rocky soil. Dug down six inches to lay a layer of sand, just enough to keep the roots from drowning in spring’s kindness. These trees don’t like wet feet.
Then we dropped the seeds. Two of them. About thirty feet apart. Quiet little graves, waiting on resurrection.
I wrapped them in grow tubes and circled them with rocks. Not decorative ones. Defensive ones. Around here, chipmunks think your hard work is their buffet. And I didn’t baby those seeds for six months just to offer up a free snack.
There are no guarantees. The foundation doesn’t promise these seeds are blight-proof. Just hopeful. But hope is enough.
Because what we planted wasn’t just a tree. It was a legacy. A question. A prayer.
Can something lost… grow again?
I love this land. I love its stubbornness. Its history. The way it waits. But what I love most is what it teaches. Trees don’t hurry. They dig in. They weather storms. They take the long view. If they’re blessed enough to live, they drop their fruit year after year without fanfare.
That’s the kind of life I want to live. Not flashy. Not loud. But faithful.
Maybe one day, if the Lord tarries and the blight stays back, a grandchild of mine will lean against one of those trees and say, “Papa planted this.”
And even if the trees never break the surface, I’ll be glad we tried. Because there’s something holy about putting a seed in the ground and trusting God with the outcome. It’s not showy. It’s not certain. But it’s worship.
Here at the end of a dead-end road—where the world feels quiet and faith feels close—that’s enough.
To learn more about my Ozark writings click here.
Recommended Resource: If you’re studying the Psalms, you won’t want to miss my in-depth review of The Treasury of David by Charles Spurgeon. This timeless masterpiece unpacks the Psalms with rich theological insight, making it essential for devotion, sermon prep, or deep Bible study. Read the full review here.
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