Years ago, my mother, an accomplished artist, was enrolled in a litany of classes at a local college.  These art-focused classes taught techniques of design composition, the use of various artistic media, and special drawing styles, to name a few.  For one class, she received a standard assignment:  create a large drawing of a “still-life” subject (basically, an interesting object or grouping of objects).  Looking for a truly unique item to draw, my mother chose something that was doubtless inspired by her love of the woods—a pinecone.  The drawing she produced is beautiful, and my grandmother was so entranced by it that it hung on the wall of her house for years.  That simple assignment is now part of our family lore.  

My family members aren’t the only folks for whom pinecones hold a special meaning.  Indeed, these humble objects make a plethora of appearances throughout our culture.  As a result, most of us are quite familiar with pinecones.  Even if we haven’t seen a real one, we’ve at least noticed replicas—embossed on greeting cards, embroidered on pillows, or dangling from a Christmas wreath.  And living in the woods, I’m certainly no stranger to pinecones.  I’ve kicked them on forest trails, I’ve passed them swinging on evergreen branches, and I’ve even admired cheeky squirrels nibbling away at their seeds.  They’re so common that, if I’m not careful, I can tend to take them for granted.  However, every now and then, one will catch my attention, and I’ll notice it in a deeper way.  

I’ve found that there’s something satisfying, somehow, about finding a pinecone that hasn’t been gnawed by squirrels or worn by the elements or crunched under someone’s foot.  The scales in perfect pattern, spiraling around and around in a way that reminds me somehow of feathers on birds or scales on fish or even rungs on Jacob’s ladder.  The aesthetics, the symmetry, make it easy to see why the exterior of the pinecone receives all the attention.  But what most people don’t realize is that the most valuable part of a pinecone is found deep inside—the seeds of future pine trees.  I hold that pinecone in my palm, and it’s only papery bark, and it’s only dull-dirt brown, but it’s precious and it’s beautiful and it’s meaningful.  And there in the winter woods, fingers wrapped around the sharp-pronged scales, I wonder how it can weigh so little but hold so much.    

You see, the scales of a pine cone aren’t simply for decoration.  They actually cover and protect the seeds, nestled underneath them.  In fact, it’s not uncommon for a pine cone to remain on its parent tree for an entire decade in order for the seeds to develop fully.  Even after the pinecone falls, its primary purpose—protecting those seeds—remains its top priority.  And to accomplish this goal, it can do something amazing—open and close itself. 

It sounds unbelievable, but if you want to see for yourself, you can try this experiment sometime.  Visit the winter woods and look for a pinecone that’s recently fallen and still intact.  Bring it inside and expose it to a heat source.  You could hold it near a radiator, gently warm it with a hairdryer, or even place it in an oven.  (Keep in mind that pinecones can burn if the heat is too intense; for more information on how to perform this experiment safely, visit this website.)  As the pinecone becomes warmer and drier, you’ll notice something surprising.  The scales will actually unfold, and the pinecone will open completely.

Now, let’s say that you removed the fully open pinecone from the oven and submerged it in a bucket of icy water.  After only a short time, the expanded pinecone would be almost unrecognizable as the scales tightened and closed themselves over the seeds.  Just check out the pictures below for the dramatic difference.

Why does this happen?  The pinecone is specially designed to respond to changing conditions in its environment.  Seeds have the best chances of survival if they’re released in warm, dry conditions.  Thus, warmth and dryness trigger the pinecone to open wide, allowing the seeds to escape.  However, cold, wet conditions are not only unsuitable for future trees to take root; they’re also potentially damaging to the seeds themselves.  Thus, in this kind of environment, the pinecone seals itself up tightly, preventing harm to its precious cargo.

As I watch this odd behavior of the pinecone, I realize that it seems a bit familiar.  Perhaps that’s because my heart can perform much the same defense mechanisms—opening wide when I feel safe, yet closing off at the first sign of danger.  We humans aren’t carrying valuable seeds, but we often feel the need to conceal far more valuable items—like our emotions, ideas, affections, and even our deep pain.

“Put [my] heart in a shell; put the shell in a box;/Don’t let anyone see/That the small quaking shriveled-up thing in the box/Is the heart inside of me.”  I scribbled these lines down several years ago to help me cope with a difficult time, and as I read them now, I can’t help but realize that I’ve taken this “advice” many times during my life.  And I suspect I’m not alone in this.  During times of prosperity, people tend to be expansive, friendly, and welcoming.  We laugh with friends, confide in our family, smile at strangers on the street.  But when we’re hurt, we retreat.  Suddenly the people around us seem not like potential allies but possible threats waiting to inflict even deeper wounds on our fragile psyche.  And like the pinecone, we respond by sealing the deepest parts of ourselves out of sight.

Why do we do this?  Sometimes this is a natural response when our openness has been rewarded with hate.  When we’ve been wronged by a close friend, a spouse, a family member, when someone we love has betrayed our trust, then it’s easy to withdraw.  If we hadn’t been so open and trusting, we reason, we would have never been hurt.  And if being open caused the problem, then surely locking our heart away will fix it.  So we huddle over our pain and block out those around us.  

Or perhaps we’ve experienced a traumatic situation that has shredded the fabric of our world.  Abuse, neglect, accidents, crimes, intense loss and incredible grief—these are some of the darkest lows of the human experience.  To survive the holes they rip in our lives, sometimes closing ourselves off feels like the only option.  One of the most simply impactive quotations I’ve ever read on this topic came from an anonymous woman whose story was detailed by Max Lucado in his book Cast of Characters.  As a child, she endured horrific abuse at the hands of her Satanist parents, who used her as an implement in their terrible rituals.  In Lucado’s book, she described her survival strategy as “crawling down deep inside herself.”  Those of us who have experienced an agonizingly painful situation find her words to be terribly true.  

And sometimes, we’re not facing trauma or rejection but simply encountering a rough season, and we feel no one understands—or even cares to.  Our culture is largely to blame for this—the insistence on keeping up appearances, the urge to be constantly rendering our messy lives Instagram-worthy.  In a world where we mandate picture-perfection, all we achieve is chronic loneliness.  We don’t have a culture of authenticity; we have a culture where the mother whose child is battling chronic illness, the man whose faith is wavering, and the teenager seized with doubts about the future all shake hands in the church foyer and politely assure the others that they’re doing wonderful, thank you for asking.  In reality, everyone is dying inside—and no one wants to be the first to pull off the mask.  And in all that loneliness, that inner conviction that judgment accompanies disclosure, we conceal our pain with our Sunday smiles.

I’m sure that like all of us, you’ve felt that urge to hide.  Retreat from a sharp and painful world and seal off your heart.  Build a wall that no one can penetrate.  There’s a problem, though.  For the pinecone, closing itself off in less-than-ideal conditions is a God-given design that allows it to protect its purpose.  However, what is a marvelous defense mechanism for a pinecone doesn’t work so well for humans.  

You see, when we close the door to others, we actually open the door to Satan’s attacks.  The devil loves it when we withdraw from each other—because we have just made his job easier.  Perhaps this is what Peter had in mind when he warned his readers that “your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8 ESV). 

Weakened.  Alone.  And the lion attacks.  Haven’t you heard his snarls while you were hiding inside yourself?

            Imagine if everyone knew about this.  They’d hate you.

            No one else has this problem.

            You’re such a fake.

            There’s no way to fix this.

            If only your kids could behave like theirs.  Look how perfect that family is.  

            And you call yourself a Christian!  

            Don’t tell anyone.  Do you want the whole church to know about this?

Shame.  Guilt.  Silence. 

And then, Satan’s real work begins.  Because in isolation, there is only emptiness in which his lies can echo.  When we are alone, with no one to give us another perspective, we believe his words much more readily.  Slowly, he can destroy us—just like the roaring lion stalking his prey.

“Not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near” (Hebrews 10:25 ESV).  We hear this verse applied to corporate worship, and certainly it is very applicable for that situation.  However, it’s important to note that there’s no number specified in this verse.  The “meeting” could have been a hundred people.  Or it could have been three—just a handful committed to encouraging each other and speaking truth into each other’s situations.  “As is the habit of some.”  Persecution was beginning to rumble underneath at this time.  Perhaps the believers were beginning to become discouraged—and withdrawing.  At any rate, the author of Hebrews knew that in their pain, as conditions worsened, they needed others more, not less.  The very thing they feared—vulnerability—was actually the wellspring of one of their greatest strengths.

So yes, like the pinecone, we’re often tempted to close up tightly and hold that pain inside.  Yet when we do so, we’re only making matters worse.  We may be wounded.  We may be fragile.  We may be terrified—and the thought of revealing our secret pain might feel impossible.  But when we open ourselves—even to just one compassionate person—and share our scars, we may be surprised at what happens.  The world might not be as threatening as we thought.  There’s nothing that erases the power of the devil’s words as much as these gentle words:  I understand.  I’m here.  You are not alone.  And even greater than the benefits of opening up to other people is the healing power of sharing our pain with the Lord.  No matter what’s hurting you today, remember the words of the psalmist:  “You keep track of all my sorrows.  You have collected all my tears in your bottle.  You have recorded each one in your book” (Psalm 56:8 NLT).  Your pain is His priority.  

In these bleak winter days, most pinecones I locate in the woods are closed up, scales locked over seeds, sharp edges pointing outwards.  When I pick one up, I nod my head, because I understand the need to feel protected.  Perhaps that’s why I enjoy bringing them inside—watching the light and the warmth and the gentle care unfurl the scales and release the jealously guarded seeds.  The scales relax, and the bands around my soul loosen—and I smile, because I have learned the pinecone’s lesson.  In the midst of a frightening world, I am only truly safe when I am living with an open heart.  

Did you enjoy this blog post? In what ways have you found vulnerability to be a strength? Let me know in the comments!

Also, check out this song about the benefits of community with other believers!