In Praise of Roots

The wildflowers trembled in the early morning breeze. Their violet and ivory faces turned upward toward the patches of blue sky, caught between overhanging branches. My fingers brushed the flowers’ as I strolled down the trail. God had planted the word “experience” in my mind, a divine note, and I was existing in the moment. Experiencing beauty through the gentle fingering of leaves. 

Enchanted by the wildflowers’ delicacy, I stooped to pick a posy. I grasped a flower’s stem and pulled: the root emerged with the freed stem. Dirt fell from its scraggly brown tips. Irritation flickered across my mind. Tiresome root. Now I have to separate the flower again. At that moment, surveying the stubborn clutch of the root, another thought dawned.

No. Roots are beautiful, too. 

We so often glorify flowers. For the way their buds emerge, for the opening of their petals, for the sweet aroma they breathe, for the soft caress of their leaves. Poems have been written in honor of them, beautiful women have been compared to them. They, with good reason, beautify our outdoor grounds and our living room. But, as I stared at the root, I realized how we so often overlook it. 

In comparison to the charm of flowers, roots can appear insignificant. Their gnarly, hairy ends do not expel the same aesthetic beauty flowers do. They dwell deep in dark places. Dirt, cold, and shadow drape their daily setting. Only the faint echo of bird calls reaches them. Their only focus is to seek water, to survive. 

At times, I have felt like a root. During the lockdown period of the Covid-19 pandemic, I struggled with mental health issues which made me feel enclosed, underground, and isolated from the world. I was divorced from light, only faintly catching sight of beauty. In this time, my only aim in life was to accomplish the necessary tasks and physically stay alive. Yet, even in the shadowed spaces, roots grow towards deeper stability. But only when grounded in good soil. 

Because, above ground, we only see the flower and not the roots, we may, for a time, have a flawed perception of its health. A flower in weak soil with shallow roots may frolic in the light of summer. It may dazzle the eyes with its allure, concealing the pride, the greed, the sin that undergirds it. But when wind seethes and torrents of rain fall, its stem is severed, its petals devoured, its roots uprooted: it loses itself. Such is the eventual result of life grounded in sin. 

In comparison, flowers grounded in strong soil with deep roots may take longer to emerge, to grow. Their presence may be subtler, their beauty less enchanting. Their roots may tunnel into uncertainty. But when the wind seethes and torrents of rain fall, its stem may be shaken, its petals scarred but its roots are grounded: it remains. Such is a life grounded in Christ. 

Psalm 37:1-2 (NIV) poetically encapsulates the withering of the “unrooted”: “Do not fret because of those who are evil or be envious of those who do wrong; for like the grass they will soon wither, like green plants they will soon die away.” The external appeal of pleasure and sin can blind us. The soil is shallow, the way easy, and the enjoyment immediate. But Christ calls us to be rooted in Him. The soil may be coarse, the way strenuous, and the enjoyment delayed. The daily measuring of our words, patience in our actions, and confession of our failings may stretch us. But, in the dark and the difficult, we are growing towards living water. Grounded in grace, we are forging roots that will endure the fury of external chaos. 

Staring at the root in my hand, I was filled with a desire to embody it. To be so grounded in Christ that no force could sever me from the depth of His mercy. In my daily life, as I face opposition, I pray that the words I speak be grounded in truth. As I care for my neighbours, I pray that the way I act be grounded in love. As I wrestle with the shadows of my mind, I pray that the objects I behold be grounded in beauty. Let us reap what we sow; let us live what we root. 

Yours,

Abigail