When something happens in life to interrupt our normal—a job loss, retirement, grown children moving out of the house, divorce, or an illness—it is as though we are yanked out of a stability and existence that we never imagined would ever end (or at minimum, never imagined it would have turned out like this!).
Sometimes the abrupt turns of direction are well-received. Sometimes they are better than we imagined.
Until.
Until something upsets that applecart and we are staring at a mess that we indeed did not sign up for.
Retirement was great until such and such happened.
The kids moving out was perhaps a relief, or a sense of a job well done, until we started to miss them and realize they are never coming home to live again.
That divorce couldn’t happen fast enough and the newfound freedom was invigorating, until the reality of the loss of what had been built all those years together as a couple sinks in.
We may not realize how deep our roots have implanted themselves in the spot where we’ve worked and lived until those roots are yanked. It is then, at that moment of surprising ourselves, of feeling groundless, that we instantly begin to look for another planter to pot ourselves into.
That pot could be a newfound desire for community; it might look like going back to school; it might mean returning to one’s childhood stomping grounds.
Maybe we find ourselves able to distract ourselves with travel or leisure activities. But over time, we realize that even those moorings have taken on too much water and become soggy and lethargic.
What we want is meaning again. Purpose.
I mean, look. We went to work every day for 15, 20, 30 or more years. Now we don’t know what to do with ourselves (whether emotionally or physically).
We raised our kids, enjoyed it—even the tantrums and sleepless nights, in hindsight. We knew each day what the drill was and we lived and breathed as a family. And the days went by and we didn’t really pay too close attention until one day, or one summer, or one year: they were gone. Overnight, seemingly, our role as parent—at least as hands on, up close and personal parent—is over.
Now we don’t know what to do with ourselves.
We may have some consistencies to tide us over, such as ongoing ministries, hobbies and social engagements. Our we may not.
But these consistencies might lose their luster for a time as we attempt to put the rug back under our feet.
It’s when we realize that nothing we can do will put the rug back under our feet that we understand our roots, our grounding, our foundation has probably not been the right and true one.
It’s then we slow down and ask ourselves,
“Did I even have roots to begin with? If those were roots, why were they so easily disrupted, and hence, my world turned on end?”
If our sense of being and purpose has disappeared with the job, the good health, the political leader, the spouse, the kids, the dog, the house or the city, then we have sown our seeds in the wrong place, and what we are feeling is perhaps never having sprouted.
We are still a seed waiting to germinate in true soil.
Because the way Scripture tells it, some seed is scattered on dry ground, and some on rocky soil, and some where birds eat it before it can ever generate a bud (Matthew 13:3-9).
And it is the cares of the world, the busyness, the getting distracted with life—even by a good life and good kids and a good wife and a good career—that can keep us from forming permanent, deep tendrils that are impervious to all attempts to disrupt them. (Matthew 13:3-9).
So even while we are sure we have made Christ our foundation, if we find ourselves aimless, directionless, and looking to things, people or places in the world—even good things and people—to make us feel “normal” again, then we can know we haven’t grown true roots yet: the true roots of Christ.
This isn’t to say that we don’t ever feel loss, or sadness or confusion in life’s long list of curve balls. It means we stay grounded at bat in the One who is guiding us, and will guide us, even in our times of upheaval.
That’s a grounding in Him that waits for Him.
Trusts in Him.
Pleads with Him to make this new “normal”—that we never factored into the equation—to make it okay. To give us peace. To bring His healing. To keep us confident in His outcome.
To be for us whatever is lacking.
And to obey: everything He is teaching us. Everything He is convincing us of.
This rooting in Christ is what will take our seed—perhaps a seed that has cracked open and been prepared to anchor into His good soil all these years—and grow it large, even into a massive tree, with birds building nests in its branches (Matthew 13:31-32).
This is the foundation on which we are able to finish strong.
Jesus, in Luke 14: 28-30, explains:
“For which one of you, when he wants to build a tower, does not first sit down and calculate the cost to see if he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who observe it begin to ridicule him, saying, ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish’” (Luke 14:28-30).
We may have begun building, even thinking that the only cement we’re using is Jesus Christ.
But then a day comes when we are so flummoxed by our circumstances and inner turmoil that our eyes are opened to the fact that our cement is not of Christ—not entirely. We have built a foundation on situations, status, people, places and our own capabilities—with Jesus thrown into the mix.
The cementing that leads to eternal purpose, constant joy, a content and quiet life, fruitful labor for His kingdom, and endurance to meaningfully finish the race—come what may—is Christ. All Christ.
Everything is founded on Him, not the other way around.
The gift of times of testing is that out of them the roots of Christ can establish, grow and mature into the tallest of trees; where singing birds rest and take refuge.
Copyright Barb Harwood
"The seed will grow well, the vine will yield its fruit, the ground will produce its crops, and the heavens will drop their dew." Zechariah 8:12a
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