These roots tangle and tear. Their fleshy arms reach through my soul, jerking me back at every attempt. I am Gollum on the edge of repentance. I would be free, but every gasp, these graspings at light, this climb up and out of this jungle beneath the soil of my faith, ends in exhaustion.
Let me go!
I just want to notice the moon rising over the waves, my own waves. The watercolor swirl of pink and blue transforms the Osprey as she fishes for chicks given by God, her gifts. I want to see the gifts of starlight dimmed in moonlight, the breeze across the sand that relieves July’s humidity.
Let me see, please.
Let me see the way he loves her, the way the Robin nimbles last on a worm won for his mate as they hunt together in the garden I once loved. I want to see the gifts–the gift of you. You, in all your beauty and personality, the soul unlike and yet in the same image as my own. But these roots rip out my eyes and bind my love until all I can remember is you, the enemy. You, the theological error. You, the meme I mock. You, the wrong.
When I think of roots, I usually think of Summer evenings soaked in chlorine, tomato juice, and butter running down my chin—the memories of my Grandparent’s pool and garden. This chin that juts itself into a runway for sauce–it's my Mother's chin. I think of Aunts who love me, cousins who remind me, parents who define me. I think of Baptist pastors and the first Sunday school teacher I loved. I think of loneliness, the unnamed playmate of my childhood daydreams. The stories I told myself to understand myself. That feeling of not being rooted as we moved from church to house to friendship. The untethered-ness that tethers me even now. These and many more are all the roots used by God to grow the tree that is me.
These are the roots we long for, to have and to give. The Father who loved us, the Mother who nursed us, and the stability of knowing who we are, where we came from. That concrete security means that wherever we go, wherever we plant ourselves; we will always be ourselves. These are the roots of love, and my childhood was filled with them.
This is what we mean when we say, “Put down roots.” Fall in love. Worship with the church. Invite friends over. Read the good stories. Eat fresh tomatoes. Taste. Name. See. Your place in all its real beauty and humility. Know it. Go out into its woods and fields, streets and shops. Go out and make it more beautiful for having known, understood, and protected what was already there.
But as you go, be careful. There is another kind of root, a dark and sinister root that twists every good thing into an enemy, an enemy into a monster, and eventually you. There is a root that entangles itself among your memories until soon the only thing left is itself. It knots into one bitter recall after another, sarcastic towards sincerity, suspicious of effort, mocking of goodness, critical of beauty. We call it the root of bitterness, and in a world of so much pain, it is hard not to find oneself tangled in its grip.
In the same way communities form around roots of beauty, truth, and goodness; we can just as easily, often subtly, form ourselves around this root as well. I call it the Gullom root, for it takes you deep within the caves of dark meditations, demanding your attention. It shines and comforts, justifies and affirms, but over time it, like the ring of Tolkien’s tale, starves you. In turn, you forget to tend the good around you.
Bitterness keeps us busy, bonds us to the dark with a kind of loyalty that is aggressive toward the joy of creativity. Bitterness hates beauty because beauty takes creativity and creativity takes attention, and bitterness demands it all. We become obsessed with the thing that justifies our rage, remembering again and again, surrounding ourselves with those who agree. Bitterness disfigures, and if you've ever been hurt, then you know. You feel the utter impossibility of true and easy, free and generous attention to what within the confines of your small space is good.
What if the answer to your freedom is the very thing bitterness can’t create? What if one of God’s sweet graces is beauty?
My husband turns, arms open, an early morning embrace as the coffee percolates. We are alone. The morning sun fills our kitchen, and his kiss is as warm as its rays. He is my dearest love. He meets me in place and time, my equal, my friend. He knows me, and I love to be known by him.
Sluggish, finding new aches as the years go by, we greet each other ‘good morning’ with a hug and a kiss. For a few seconds, I forget everything but the sheer beauty of souls at peace. The bridge between our broken bodies and our redeemed souls is formed in this perfectly appropriate, honoring warmth. I am complete in his embrace. I belong. My roots have spread, and we have found ourselves flourishing next to each other. We have held on long through storms and droughts, and we have come far enough to not be afraid of what comes next. This moment stands as beauty.
Beauty, the sweet moment between where we are now and where we will be in ten years. Beauty, the sword that sets me free. Beauty, this fresh antidote to bitterness, the fragrance from which a Judas nature shrinks. The light upon the soul which dissipates all that is grotesque. And it is in this love, this beautiful moment, that I find myself determined to forgive, to love, to beautify, to rip up roots in order to lay new ones down. This is my home, marriage, church, family, life; and I am determined to love it because I have forgiven it as it forgives me.
My eyes are freed of ordinary anger because of ordinary beauty.