Sunday, August 3, 2014


I cycle through these incessant longings for roots. I look over my life and mourn the things I will never know. My history, my roots--they were stolen from me. And it crushes some lonely part of me.

I want to run my fingers over my baby pictures. I want tangible evidence that my father's smile is as I remember it. I want to sit around laughing and telling stories of all the goofy things I did as a child. But no one exists who can give these things back to me.

These longings create a barrenness in me. An emptiness I cannot fill. And I fool myself, repeatedly, into believing that a family of my own will heal this brokenness in me. That maybe if I could make my own roots I will no longer feel so...robbed?

Is it true, though? Can I do anything to fix this? Would my own roots be enough to bury these longings for good?

As much as I fight against it, I know what the truth is. I know that I must rely on Jesus for my roots. On days when I long for history, I must believe that while I have been severed from my earthly roots, I have been grafted into a life giving tree; an eternal history. My childhood is etched on my Father's arms, not a moment lost, not a second overlooked. He remembers what I wish I did.

My history is not lost. I am not rootless.

I read these words on a blog by Fab Shafford months and months ago- it resonates so deeply tonight:

"In the conscious places, Jesus, I proclaim the truth: You are more than enough for me. May the unconscious places hear and believe."


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