I've passed by many trees like this as we walk the streets of Saigon. They have beautiful shiny leaves and the way the branches weave out is interesting and unique. But it is the roots of the tree that I always look at. The roots are so exposed. So uncovered, so raw.
It has made me think about my own roots. How often do I expose them, and in what way?
I came from a pioneer heritage. My roots are full of men and women who made great sacrifices to provide a life for their families that would bring them the prospect of freedom to worship Jesus Christ without persecution. Some of these amazing people gave their lives in these efforts, and others suffered greatly as they tredged on, carrying a weight of grief and loneliness while they slowly moved ahead. Only finding peace and comfort in their love of God, and their faith in Jesus Christ.
I carry the name of a pioneer girl whose mother, father and brother all died on the trail, after surviving a trek across the ocean from England to America. How alone she must have felt as she walked along the prairie, in the cold, without the comfort of her mother's arms around her; and knowing that her mother would comfort her no more in this life. How did she do that? The pains of loss she carried must have been so hard for her to bear. But bore them she did, and with enough dignity, charity and grace that she has become family lore.
Do I expose those roots, her roots, when I wallow in my sadness at being seperated from my family, knowing, unlike she did, that at some point I will be reunited with them again? No. Hers are roots I'd like to expose, to be a strength deep down within me now as I have hard things to face.
And then there are other roots down deep within. A grandmother who raised her family, moving from house to house in the outback of Australia. Fighting to teach her children their "American heritage" and working to share her religious beliefs with anyone who would hear, trying with all her might to keep her family stalwart and strong, and together. I remember my dad saying that Grandma didn't want any of her kids marrying an Australian-she didn't want them living that far away from home! And she did this without girlfriends, without her sisters to call and comiserate with, without a church congregation to rally around her when times got tough. She had her husband, her children, her faith, and her own two hands to keep her going.
Do I expose those roots when we move to new places, meet new faces and settle our kids into new situations? Do I expose those roots when I face the challenge of loneliness, or the discomfort of realizing that I'm required to step far out of my comfort zone to bring my family together? Do I think about those roots when I consider the things I need, the things I really need, to keep my children stalwart and strong?
This is a time when my roots are exposed. I hope they reveal the strength, conviction, grace and charity of those who have done it before me, whose lot was more difficult, less comfortable, and more challenging than mine. I want to make them proud, to stand with them and not buckle. Someday, I could be the roots that will hold up the lives of my children and their children after them if I go back to my roots now. So that in the hour when their roots are exposed, they can draw upon my life, to know they can make it, like I did. I'm so thankful for the strength I gather from those who went before me, the ones who were strong, the ones whose roots bare me up at this time. It is because of them that I can work now to be the roots for those who come after.
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