The Forest of Colorful Metal Trees: Árboles de la Vida.

Jack was walking through a forest like none he had ever seen. The trees were not made of wood, bark, or leaves. They were tall, metallic, and impossibly bright—red, orange, blue, purple, green, and shades no color label could match. Their trunks shimmered, and their branches curved like the lines of a painter’s brushstroke.

Jack reached out as he walked deeper into the forest, letting his fingers trail along the smooth, cool surfaces. Each tree gave a different sensation: one hummed softly, another buzzed gently like distant bees. The sky overhead was golden and low, as if the sun had frozen and the Earth had shrunk. Jack felt peaceful and calm. For the first time in months, maybe years, the anxious weight in his chest was gone. He could stay in the strange metal forest forever. He was content and did not want to see anything else besides the colorful, bright trees. It was wonderful, magical, and interestingly spiritual. There seemed to be a power in the woods; it was a force pulling at Jack and coming from all the trees at once. It was everywhere and always present.

Suddenly, the sound of a baby crying broke Jack’s deep sleep; it was sharp and persistent. Jack blinked and was back in his bedroom. His daughter’s wails cut through the thin apartment walls. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and for a moment still saw red metal branches etched into his eyelids.

It was Tuesday and another workday. Another slow drive through downtown toward his primary school teaching job. Another uphill battle with a boss who had made it increasingly clear: Jack’s time was almost up, and he would be fired. Why? No reason was given because no reason was needed by the coordinator.

Three days later, Jack stood under the glare of the Managua sun, sweat sliding down his back, hands in his pockets. He had taken a short trip on his Easter break and was exploring alone in Nicaragua's capital city. He had not meant to stop in the plaza. He was only supposed to drop off a document at a school, but then he saw them. The trees! Just like the dream!

Bright metal sculptures lined the boulevard. Not dozens—hundreds. They were gigantic; they had wide branches and wild colors: scarlet, cobalt, lemon yellow, electric blue, and fire red. Some swirled into spirals, and others leaned like dancers frozen in motion. Árboles de la Vida, or Trees of Life... He remembered hearing the name of the trees once on the news. They had been built by the First Lady and, at that time, the Vice President of Nicaragua: Rosario Murillo. They were the most beautiful trees Jack had ever seen. Yes, they were metal and had lights, but their majesty was incomparable.

Jack couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened—not with awe, but something closer to despair. He slumped onto a bench under a red tree and stared upward. It was too much. The dream. The colors. The timing.

A week ago, his boss at the international private school had pulled him aside after class. The words were half polite and half full of poison. "I am going to replace you," she had told him. "I have received too many complaints from unhappy parents. You should have done much better."

He had smiled and nodded, playing the professional card. Inside, he felt like a cracked teacup, holding together out of habit. And now here he was, watching the dream bleed into real life, surrounded by metal trees that did nothing but stand tall and beautiful, unbothered by the world. Jack put his head in his hands. He had bills: a baby daughter who needed toys and clothes, a wife trying to stay hopeful, and nothing certain ahead. So he prayed. He did it with his eyes open and out loud.

“God, I don’t know what’s happening or why you brought me here,” he whispered, “but if there’s something out there for me… another school, another shot… I’ll do better. I’ll show up every day and give it everything I have. Just… help me provide. Help me teach. It’s all I know how to do.”

A sharp crack cut through the air like a whip. Jack jumped up. Lightning. Out of a cloudless sky, it struck the red tree in front of him. The metal glowed white-hot at the point of impact. For a moment, no one moved. The one police officer, who was sitting next to the red tree and whose job was to monitor the plaza, woke for a moment and then returned to his resting position. Jack stood frozen, heart pounding. It had felt like something answered him.

Weeks passed. No new jobs and no calls. Jack submitted his CV to every bilingual school he could find in Central America and Mexico. A few interviews came. Most of them ended with vague promises or underwhelming pay offers.

One morning, as he was changing his daughter’s diaper and wondering how many days of baby wipes they had left, his phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number.

“Hello?”

“Is this Jack Martinez?” a woman asked in Spanish. Her voice was cheerful and friendly.

“Yes.”

“I’m calling from the British School in Managua. We recently had a teaching position open up in our English language department. Your name came highly recommended.”

Jack gripped the edge of the crib. “I—sorry, who recommended me?”

“A teacher you worked with five years ago. She forwarded your CV to us and spoke extremely highly of you. We’d like to bring you in for a demo class next week, if you’re available.”

He was available.

The demo class went better than he imagined. The students were engaged. The principal seemed impressed. Three days later, they called again. The position was his—full-time, permanent, and it had loads of work benefits.

When he told his wife, she cried. Not out of panic this time, but relief. Jack started work in early August. His classroom had air conditioning. The textbooks were current. He had a smartboard. Every morning, he passed the Árboles de la Vida on the way to work. He always slowed when he reached the red one—the one that had been struck by lightning. Its metal skin still bore the scorch mark from that strange day. He began to think the dream had not been a normal one. Maybe it was a warning. Or it could have been a promise.

His students came from all over—Germany, Japan, the United States, and local families with international ties. Jack taught with more energy than ever before. He found creative ways to explain grammar, wrote his own reading guides, and even started a lunchtime English club for kids who wanted extra help.

Some afternoons, when the school was quiet and the sun threw long shadows across the playground, Jack sat alone in his room and thought about how close he’d come to giving up on education... and perhaps even more than that. He had nearly accepted a job packing boxes at a warehouse out of desperation. However, something—maybe divine, maybe just strange luck—had placed that dream in his sleep, those metal trees in his path, and that call in his hand.

Now, he was doing what he loved. More than that, he was living better. He was present for his wife, playful with his daughter, and—true to his promise—he gave every lesson his all, and the students loved being in Mr. Jack’s class.

One Friday evening, he walked past the trees again on his way to the bus stop. A family posed in front of a bright green one, snapping pictures. A boy touched the base of a purple one and grinned. Jack paused in front of the red tree again. It still stood, tall and slightly scorched, but unchanged. He reached out and rested his hand on the metal.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He was not sure if he was speaking to God, fate, or something stranger.

The sky above was quiet. The street buzzed with cars, life, and laughter. Jack smiled with limitless gratitude and turned to go home.