by Jennifer Greene-Sullivan
There is something sacred about returning to the place where a story is set before the story itself is unfurls.
This week, my family and I are camping in South Georgia, tucked beneath the sprawling arms of ancient live oaks draped in Spanish moss. The air is thick, the ground is soft, and the quiet—when it comes—feels almost intentional. It is here, in a place much like this, that my young adult novel The Secret Tree unfolds.
Here at Crooked River State Park, I have come to continue writing it.
There is a difference between imagining a setting and sitting inside of it. When I first began drafting this novel, I relied on memory and imagination to shape the woods, the stillness, and the tension that would carry the story. Now, I find myself listening more carefully. The crack of a twig is sharper than I remembered. The way sound travels at dusk feels almost unsettling even the shadows seem to move differently beneath these trees.
Ultimately, I realize—this story needed me to come back.
The Secret Tree follows Evie, a teenage girl who arrives at the campground with her family and roams the woods frustrated, disconnected, and unaware of how deeply her life is about to change. What begins as a family trip slowly unfolds into something far more serious, and at the center of it all is a tree—an ancient live oak that becomes both a hiding place and a place of revelation.
As I walked the campground this week, I found myself studying the roots of these trees. The way they rise from the earth, twist, and settle again creates natural hollows—places where someone could hide, or be hidden. I paused longer than expected at one particular tree, noticing how the moss veiled the base and how the shadows beneath it deepened as the sun shifted.
It is one thing to write about fear.
It is another thing to feel the stillness where fear could live.
What has surprised me most in returning to this draft is not just the clarity of the setting, but the clarity of the story itself. I came here thinking I would simply continue writing, but instead, I found myself refining the heart of the novel.
Evie will not face the darkness alone.
Her brother will be with her.
In the moment of danger, she will choose to protect him—hiding them both within the roots of that ancient tree. What unfolds from there is a story marked by trauma, silence, and ultimately, rescue. A pattern I didn’t fully see before has begun to emerge as I write: a movement from devastation, to waiting, to restoration.
Even here at my camper’s dinette table while diving into a longer work of fiction, the truth remains.
God is present in every part of the story.
Not just in the moments of rescue, but in the moments of hiding. Not just in the light, but in the stillness where we wonder if He is near at all.
As I sit gazing at the trees with my notebook open, I am reminded that writing is not just about telling a story—it is about listening for it. Sometimes, the Lord brings us back to the very place where the story lives, so we can finally hear what He was saying all along.
So this week, I write.
Not from imagination alone, but from experience. Not from distance, but from within the setting itself.
Thankfully, I have a feeling this story is about to deepen in ways I could not have reached from anyplace else.
Closing Reflection
Where has God asked you to return—not to relive something, but to see it differently?
Sometimes, the place we once passed through becomes the place where clarity finally takes root. Scripture reminds us, “And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it’” (Isaiah 30:21, ESV). Even in the returning, even in the revisiting, God is still guiding—still speaking—still making the path known before us.
Prayer
Lord, thank You for the way You guide us—not just forward, but back to the places where You are still speaking. Help us to listen more closely, to see more clearly, and to trust that even in the quiet, You are at work. Teach us to recognize Your presence in both the hiding and the healing. In Jesus’ name, amen.
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The Aging English Major 