Only God Can make A Banyan Tree
story by Craig Hewitt | photograph by Todd Kawasaki
Before the 2023 fires, the Lāhainā Banyan Tree stretched across a city block. Though partially burned, the tree grows anew, a sign of restoration of Maui and its people.
September 11, 2018. I remember that day like it was yesterday. My wife and I combed the streets of Lāhainā on a beautiful late summer day. The steady, rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves could be heard through the din of happy tourists as they scurried from shop to shop. A calm ocean breeze gently kissed my skin. The sweet saline air drifted past my nostrils. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let it fill my lungs. At that moment, I realized why so many people have come to love Maui.
Ironically, we were not even supposed to be there. My wife, six months pregnant, originally wanted to go to Portugal for our “baby moon,” that ceremonial last gasp before the sobering reality of parenthood truly sunk in. However, her doctor urged her to reconsider. She felt that if there were any complications, it would be more prudent to remain on U.S. soil. She reassured us that there were plenty of beautiful places to visit in America, and that it was better to be safe than sorry. Neither of us had been to Hawai‘i and we had the points to fly for free, but as adventurous globe trotters we succumbed to the misconception that Hawai‘i was “too touristy” and “too commercialized.” Fortunately, we could not have been more wrong. For Maui exceeded our expectations.
Like most women at this stage of their pregnancy, my wife shimmered, and Maui, with all its vibrance and verdant glory, made her even more beautiful. We continued our leisurely stroll through Lāhainā, and then we saw it: the great banyan tree. Of course, I read about the tree’s origins, and as a history buff, I was absolutely fascinated by the story of this 150-year-old, living time capsule. A gift from Indian missionaries to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the first Protestant mission to Maui, William Owen Smith, then local sheriff of Lāhainā, planted the tree as a mere sapling on April 24, 1873. The tree is literally rooted in Hawaiian lore and stands as the largest banyan tree in the United States.
I was awestruck by this sprawling giant the moment I saw it. Covering an acre and standing over 60 feet high, it reminded me of something out of a fantasy novel, as if this iconic creature had sprouted out of the imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien. It seemed so alien yet so welcoming. Like a benevolent kraken, its writhing tentacles reached for the heavens and hugged the earth below, a conduit to both worlds.
As I walked beneath its boughs, I marveled at the symphony of shadow and sunlight the great tree’s canopy created. Here, light and dark stood not in opposition; they were joined in a scintillating dance. The chitter and chatter of birds echoed among the leaves. Moss hung from the branches like the beards of old wisemen, who silently whispered nature’s grand design to those humbly seated on the benches below. What lessons would we learn if only we had the courage to open our hearts and listen?
After lingering for an hour or so, my wife and I finally left Banyan Tree Park, but the memory never subsided. I met a local artist on our way out and purchased a tiki sculpture he had carved from monkey pod wood. He explained the symbolism of the tiny totem I held in my hand, how its large almond-shaped eyes represented windows into the afterlife. He told me they were called kiʻi in Hawaiian culture, and that they represented our connection with nature and with heaven and earth. The kiʻi would bring us good fortune and wisdom he continued, so I asked him if he would carve the date on the back since my wife and I would soon be welcoming our newborn son. He smiled graciously and quickly chiseled on the back of the sculpture the words, “Baby Moon Sept 11, 18.” I thanked him, he congratulated us, and then we parted ways.
I began to see my little kiʻi in an entirely new light when tragedy struck Maui in August 2023. Our hearts sunk when we learned how wildfires ravaged the island, particularly in Lāhainā. The loss of human life and property was devastating enough, but Maui’s natural wonders fell victim, too. Not even the mighty banyan tree was spared. Feeling obligated, my wife and I donated to the recovery efforts, and our hearts ached for those whose lives were irreparably changed. Would the banyan tree survive? Would Maui ever be the same?
I began to follow the slow but steady progress and dreamed about one day returning to that magnificent island, this time with my son. They say time heals all wounds but how long would the scars remain? Fortunately, I found cause for optimism. Thanks to the dedication of arborists and volunteers, Maui, and the great banyan tree, were rising from the ashes like a real-life phoenix. It reminded me of the words of Walt Whitman who once wrote, “The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, and if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, and ceas’d the moment life appear’d.”
Nature, and by extension, humanity, is far more resilient than we ever give it credit. We tend to think that fragility and perseverance lie on different ends of the spectrum, but often the most delicate blossom thrives in the face of adversity.
I no longer doubt Maui will return stronger and more beautiful than ever. I know because nature will always find its way, and so will the people that remain true to it. Only God can make a banyan tree, but sometimes he calls on us to nurture it.
