One time, there was a man

who was meant to be a man,

but God accidentally made him a tree.

And because he was afraid to complain—

not because God was God,

but because he was himself—

he stayed a tree.

And he grew used to it.

Used to the bark,

the leaves, the sap

spilling out of what-should-have-been his mouth.

The hands that climbed his branches,

broke his branches,

and hugged him.

The sky,

and how it seemed, sometimes,

to smile at him.

He got used to it all.

And when God, at last,

realized His mistake

and asked the man

if he would like to be human,

the man told God no.

He was fine being a tree.

He said he didn’t know if being human

could ever compare to being

so still,

so rooted,

so certain of his place

in the middle of earth and wind.

He told God,

“I have learned the patience of stones,

the generosity of shade,

the joy of small birds

who need no permission to sing.

These are secrets

no one else may ever know.

Why would I trade this silence,

this endless conversation with the sun,

for the noise of doubt and wanting?”

And God,

who thought He knew everything,

kept quiet for a long while.

Then He blessed the man-tree—

not as a correction,

but as a creation—

and left him there,

a reminder that not

all of the world was

built on intention.