Roots

In the busyness of this day

grant me a stillness of seeing, O God.

In the conflicting voices of my heart

grant me a calmness of hearing.

Let my seeing and hearing

my words and my actions

be rooted in a silent certainty of your presence.

Let my passions for life

and the longings of justice that stir within me

be grounded in the experience of your stillness.

Let me life be rooted in the ground of your peace, O God,

let me be rooted in the depths of your peace.

--from Celtic Benedictions, J Philip Newell



This is very much the prayer that speaks to my condition.

I have been thinking this summer about roots. Tree roots, weed roots, pulling out roots, planting roots, the roots of my heart into Christ, and what it means to be a rooted person. When I was on retreat in B.C., I spent a lot of happy time at the side of the pool and I stared up into the trees and the way the sunlight filtered through their branches. The trees in the northwest are so tall, I never quite get my mind around their height. These tall, tall trees sway in the breeze, and their relatively skinny trunks do not look like they could withstand large gusts of wind because the trunks don't seem to have as much width as they need. Instead, they flexibly sway with the wind, reaching up into the sky. I imagine that these trees have incredible root systems that go deep into the earth and tangle with other root systems to create something almost unshakable and unmovable. At the coast earlier this summer, I climbed with my daughter all over a huge tree that had been left to lay where it toppled over years ago, and it's roots were revealed. The roots were complex and as thick as branches. I spent way too much time pulling weeds and grass out of the garden this summer, and I continue to be amazed at the length of roots on a clump of grass or the foot of root that I pull up with a fairly innocent looking weed.
I have been prayerfully holding up this year in the light of Christ, a bit apprehensive of the intensity and gusts of wind that are ahead. This summer I have thought long and hard about the state of my soul and found myself dangerously tired (as Ruth Hayley Barton calls it). I know that the only way that I with thrive in the midst of the wind gusts and storms is to be deeply rooted in the peace of Christ. Deep, deep roots that are all tangled up with my husband, daughter, spiritual friends, scripture, and the Holy Spirit. I cannot prepare or plan for the unknown, instead my strategy must be depth in the heart of Christ.
My own passions for life, justice, beauty, ministry, freedom, love must be grounded in the stillness of the Spirit and rooted in the certainty of God's presence. I love to read books on balance and leadership and sometimes deceive myself into thinking that a new plan, better organization, or a new system will keep me from losing my soul and keep on top of life. The help a plan can give me is limited. It is rootedness in Jesus that enables me to both reach for the sky and sway gently in whatever winds rise up.
My spiritual mentor-friend Koby once told me that she had come to a dry point in her spirit. She was trying to draw water from the well, but the well was run dry. She was exhausted and dangerously tired. She went to her spiritual director for wisdom. "Do I need to work harder at this?" was her question. Her spiritual director said, "It is not that the well is dry, but that it is not deep enough. Go deeper and you will find water in the well." I spend my time cranking the well often, but realize that my well isn't deep enough, my root system too shallow, and that I am grounded to sand. My soul longs for depth, for roots into the heart of God.