Being rooted in Christ for me at least in part means that I need to get on my knees and dig around in the dirt of my life with Him. I can be honest with the Lord. I don’t have to pretty things up. I have to recognize the weeds of pride, unbelief, bitterness, and unforgiveness, and at the same time open my eyes to the blooming of His goodness and faithfulness in the midst of the messiness of life. In this way my roots go deep into Him and I am built up and strengthened in my faith.

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When I was a teen, my mother was my best friend. Mom was a stay-at-home mother, as were most mothers in those days. I would come home from school and she was always there to greet me. After working on my homework, I would sit by the stove while she prepared dinner (in those days, moms did that too). We would chat. I could tell her about almost anything and she usually had some wise advice. I clearly remember telling her about some boy I had a crush on, who didn’t know I existed. Her advice? “Marilyn, boys are like street cars. If you miss one, another one will come along.” I can’t remember who the boy was, but I do remember Mom’s wise counsel.

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You spend the first 5 years scared OUT OF YOUR MIND that you’ve been given this much control over another HUMAN BEING. And you spend the rest of your life watching what control you had, slip through your fingers like sand.

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There is something very special about fellowship and the breaking of bread together. How personal and intimate an act it can be to sit with friends and/or family and enjoy the trust and joy of sharing. I find this especially so with my Christian family.

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While God’s act of justification in our life is immediate, our walk in this new relationship with God is painstakingly slow and imperfect! As Paul says, “the very thing I want to do (and know that I should do) I cannot do, and the very thing that I don’t want to do (and know that I should not do) is what I do! [Romans 7:15-20] I can just see Paul holding his head in his hands, pathetically bemoaning his human limitations.

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Recently I attempted to complete a simple puzzle with my grandson Kaleb, who is three. In my way of thinking, the way the twenty-four pieces were cut gave little clue as to where they should be placed. I studied an oddly-shaped piece with blue, black, and a splash of orange in the corner, wondering what it was and where it should go.

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