I set out on my bicycle, riding south along the eastern bank of the Amstel River. The air is bright and blue, still cool in the shadows but growing more and more warm, with a rich green smell to it. The city falls away behind me, as I push past cafes and schools, tall modern office buildings and squat corrugated warehouses. Soon, I'm shooting under metro lines, train tracks, and highway overpasses -- and finally I break out into the wide expanses of vibrant green meadows and impossibly blue skies. Especially after another long, dark, Dutch winter, a mild spring day such as this feels like a miracle.

About halfway between Amsterdam and Ouderkerk-aan-de-Amstel, I find my destination. Among the various orchards and glens along the way, this one is my favorite because of the enormous oak tree that stands in the middle of a broad clearing. I ditch my bike beside the bicycle path, and I walk out to the tree. I touch its trunk with the tips of my fingers. It is stout and strong, all gnarled and knobby -- but beautiful. A magnificent, awe-inspiring Methuselah of a tree. The oak's branches spread out so far that I would find myself out of breath if I were to run from one end of the oak's shady canopy to the other. But I'm not here to run; I'm here to rest. Finding a spot in the dappled sunlight beneath the old oak tree, I lower myself to the ground and breathe deeply. The gentle spring breeze causes the oak leaves to rustle and sway, like an ocean at low tide.

Surely, there are few things in God's creation that are as beautiful and magnificent as an old oak tree.

As I lie on my back and gaze up into the oak foliage, I find myself wondering exactly how long it might take for just such a tree to grow. Probably dozens, if not hundreds of years. I remember sitting here in early-October, last year, and seeing all the acorns that had fallen down from the old oak canopy. There were thousands of them. Each acorn was a work of art, in and of itself -- so perfectly round and smooth, with all the power and potential of a mighty oak tree latent within. But in all my years of frequenting this meadow, beneath this oak tree, it's odd to notice that I have never seen even the tiniest oak sapling. Out of all those thousands of acorns, not just from last fall but from previous seasons as well, not one of them has established itself as an oak (at least not as far as I'm aware). And even if one were to sprout and take root, it would be many, many years -- perhaps not until the time of my grandchildren or great-grandchildren -- that the experience of that hypothetical oak tree could approach anything like the experience of the Methuselah Oak that stretches into the sky today. Perhaps that's part of what makes it so beautiful. Beautiful, but also a bit lonely or wistful.

In this moment of reflection, my nose is tickled by the wind-borne seeds of a dandelion, and my attention is drawn from the towering oak overhead to the vast expanse of grasses and weeds down on the ground level. Dandelions are everywhere. Yellow dandelions, gray dandelions, open dandelions, closed dandelions, tall dandelions, short dandelions -- they stretch out as far as the eye can see... and then some.

Looking across the field, I realize that the dandelions are beautiful and magnificent in their own way. Sure, they're weeds -- and kind of pesky weeds at that -- but I don't know if I've ever beheld a more cheerful kind of pest. Bright and yellow, with a shaggy mane roaring into the sky. They look happy and healthy. Anything-but-lonely. Insects buzz from flower to flower. Tiny, fluffy seeds are plucked from one dandelion at the end of its life cycle while the earliest sprouts of a new dandelion are popping up right beside it.

They're small. They're humble. They don't last very long. But these dandelions are indomitable.

I stretch out, pick a dandelion, and hold it up to my face. It smells slightly bitter but fresh and verdant. I rub the tiny yellow petals across my cheeks and over my nose. Holding the dandelion at arms length, I use my thumb to make the blossom pop off and float to the ground. It's remarkable to consider how delicate an individual dandelion really is. Yet even if I tried to wipe out the dandelion population for a single square of 10 meters by 10 meters, I don't think I could do it. Trample them. Scorch them. Freeze them. Poison them. Pluck them. They just keep coming back again. Dandelions grow anywhere and everywhere. Generation after generation, they keep growing and spreading and multiplying... and growing... and spreading... and multiplying...

I tilt my head back and admire the oak tree again -- realizing that I always aspire to the oaks in life: writing a great novel... developing a great career... establishing a great church... or at least obediently following the Great Commission and "making disciples of all nations." As my eyes linger upwards, in the branches of the old oak tree, I turn my head back towards the field in front of me again. So often, I forget to appreciate the dandelions that are all around me: writing a simple e-mail of encouragement to a friend... putting in a good, solid day's work... having a meaningful conversation with someone about what God is doing in his life... raising children from day to day. These things, too, are beautiful and noteworthy. Both oaks and dandelions have their place in the meadow -- and in my life.