By My Roots You Shall Know Me

A few weeks ago, the roommates and I had the annual tree-putting-up night.  It’s become tradition here behind the green door, all current members of the house gather their ornaments and lights, we order in Chinese take-out, and we listen to Bing Crosby or some other Christmas crooner.  This year, we sat around the table to eat before we made the tree sparkle with love and light.  We talked about Christmas and traditions and 2016 and memories and life.  Seeing as I am my mother’s child, I could not resist the opportunity to ask a question of sentimental value: what word defines 2016 for you?  How will you remember these past 365 (not quite that many yet) days? 

I love hearing people answer these kind of questions.  But then there’s a little problem; they always make me answer them, too, and then I have to think and it’s hard. 

But this year my word was easy: roots. 

For sure, that’s the word of the year for me.  I have discovered new depths of what roots mean, of how roots define, and of how roots come to be transplanted.   I’ve had to learn that uncovering others’ roots helps me to understand them.  Ironically, I’ve also been learning that solid roots allow wings to grow.  Roots are crazy important. 

The branches on a dogwood in April put on a marvelous show.  But it’s a healthy root system that helps that happen.  Without it, the glitz and glamour of the leaf would be nonexistent. 

But the funny thing about roots is how hidden they are.  Especially when you’re a nomad.  But they’re there.  Oh boy, yes they are.

So I guess this year has been a time of me learning this.  Learning this about myself and about those around me. 

There are three kinds of root systems for a person: regional roots, family roots, and faith roots.  2016 has taught me how deeply each of those roots run within me.

First, regional roots.  I’m a transplant.  I moved to the hills of South Carolina going on nine years ago.  I love that my wings have brought me to the land where tea is sweet and neighboring is an art and life moves a little slower.  With each passing year, my roots here grow, they deepen.  I’m not a visitor in this zip code; this is home.  And I love that.  But a transplant will never be a true Southerner.  There may be flairs and flavors that sink down, but you can’t replace a system completely.  I discover that when I go to the land of my roots.  I’m a Northern Ohio girl deep within.  That land has shaped me.  The land where people work hard and live with less-than-ideal weather conditions.  The land where sports fans know heartbreak way too well yet return the next year with a well-spring of hope.  I get that.  It’s who I am, too, because that’s the root system built under me from the land of my childhood. 

Next, family roots.  Inescapable.  The way we were raised settles deeply within us. I’ve thought about this a lot lately, especially with extended family.  My dad’s family was together a few weeks ago.  In the morning, one-by-one people appeared, crusty-eyed and bed-headed, looking for coffee and a spot by the fireplace.  I had to grin at the less-than-fashionable way that we related.  But that’s kinda what it means to be a Mullet.  A little crusty around the edges.  Like it or not, that’s a root.  And strangely enough, it’s comforting when I’m connected to it.  Family roots run deep and long and finger their way through everything. 

Finally, faith roots.  Even within the Christian community, there are so many brands of these.  Having both parents who were raised Amish and growing up Mennonite myself, I probably have no clue how much these traditions have influenced me.  But as I get older, I get more and more fascinated with how deeply this has shaped me.  I’ve got “shema” issues, straw-hat inhibition, and get a kick out of the Mennonite game.  You can fight against this root, but it will win.  Traces of it will show up in the craziest places. 

This is who I am.  This is how my roots have shaped me.

Atticus Finch famously told his curious little Scout that if she ever really wants to understand a person, she needs to climb inside of his skin and walk around awhile.  I think he was telling her to study roots.  I know it’s been true of me this year.  Somehow this process of exploring and appreciating my own roots and seeking to understand those of others has helped me understand myself and those around me.

   

So what’s been your defining word this year?

A Slice of the Dawn

For awhile now I’ve been needing it.

In reality, I always need it, but sometimes I know it more than others.  I need it in order to go on. I need a glimpse, a taste, a slice.

I need a slice of the dawn.

It’s a bit egotistical of me to believe that Jesus will break through the eastern skies precisely at dawn at Eastern Standard Time upon His return, making it dawn for those of us in this span of earth but not for the other billions scattered over it.  Maybe He’ll mess with the morning light and make it dawn for everyone.  Or maybe it’s not really that important.  Maybe it’s just me who has this fascination with a sunrise exploding with His presence.  Or maybe not.

These days, I’ve been feeling like I need a glimpse of it, a glimpse of the scene that both terrifies and satisfies me.  A glimpse that gives me undivided certainty that He is the Mighty Conqueror.  A sneak-peak of the day when I will be fully-known.  

The chains of time weigh heavy on our immortal souls.  For me, that weight is often dulled by distraction.  A busy lifestyle, an ever-present Facebook feed, a fridge, whatever it may be.  But then along comes something that slices through all of those cushy barriers I allow and cuts deep inside to retrieve that deep longing.  The longing that I can hardly even name. 

How is this ache uncovered?  For me, it’s a number of things.  A magnificent show of clouds and sun on a background of blue; a story that draws me in so deeply I hardly know how to get out; songs that bring unexplained tears to the surface; kids who draw me into their world of wonder; friends who know me in a glance.  All of these and so much more.  It’s the stuff of heaven that's cloaked with the skin of earth. 

Lately it’s been an album, songs with the perfect combination of words placed on a musical score that sneaks deep into my heart and pulls back the layers leaving this longing, this ache, fully revealed. 

It woke me up long before my alarm this morning. 

So, I poured some coffee, grabbed a blanket, and headed to the deck to watch the dawn come.  I asked the Giver of Life to give me a glimpse of Him in this ache.  To remind me that one day this ache will be replaced with a full understanding of myself, of Him, and of the world.

 The rooster crowed, the leaves fell, the sun began its slanting turn.  The world awakened around me, giving me a glimpse of His might.  My heart stirred, my page filled, my soul quieted.  And in the middle of all the action, my eyes began to see.

I have a slice of dawn.  I don’t live in the dawn yet, but I can see pieces of it.  I am placed smack in the middle of a masterpiece of a world that is a beautiful glimpse of who its Creator is.  I rub elbows with other immortals all day long, seeing yet another slice of His majesty.  I have the written Word that reveals His heart and His ways.  I have the Holy Spirit residing within me, joining me on the ups and downs of this thing called life. 

Slice, slice, slice, slice, chunk.

He allowed a sword to slice through His heart so that one day the chains of time will bind us no more.  In that unbinding, we will live fully for who we are.  I can’t wait for that day, for the dawn.  But in the meantime, He gives us so many sweet reminders of His grace, of His presence. 

It’s so good to live unforgotten in the in-between.

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. 1 Corinthians 13:12