Rooted Hope

There is a dirt berm surrounding the patio where Adirondack chairs and a firepit sit just beyond my kitchen window. Though there are bits of shade above the now-moss-covered slope of earth, it’s a space that is largely exposed to the elements. 

In the summer, this small horseshoe of hillside gets pummeled by intense sun, and the ground that is now fully saturated with rain ends up cracked and parched. And yet, for some reason years ago, someone planted six ferns right on the steepest slope of the berm. One of my best friends was visiting with her children some years ago, and her oldest daughter is brilliant and knows it. She couldn’t have been older than 9 years during this visit, but she knew enough to tell me, “My mom says you shouldn’t plant ferns where they will get direct sunlight. They will just scorch and die.” I chuckled, and I made sure to inform her that it was not me who planted these ferns on a hillside in direct sunlight. But also, her mother was correct. Ferns love the shade! And on this particular day in late June, the ferns she spoke of were already withering in the way that things planted in less-than-ideal places tend to wither. She was pointing out something that I had noticed but didn’t have a solution for. These fern plants were big! Their root systems were already well-established along the side of the slope and were fundamental in preventing erosion. Digging them out would be hard and time-consuming and would likely mean death to the plants, as ferns do not like to be transplanted. Plus, then I would have to plant something else to prevent the loss of the hillside or build a retaining wall. The solution then was just to let them be, and years later, they don’t look too bad! A few tips are brown and brittle, but they’re still alive. I have made them my beloveds and tended to them well. 

The ache of being planted into less-than-ideal circumstances is the unavoidable truth of so many across the globe at this moment. Palestine, Iraq, Afghanistan, Ukraine… the list is endless. I grew up in the 80s on the West Coast of the United States. I was born to a Canadian mom who loved her country but naturalized to become a US citizen in the 90s alongside her parents. You have never seen prouder American citizens than my grandparents during their annual 4th of July barbecue. To so many, even those coming from countries with plenty of beauty and freedoms, the United States of America has looked like a beacon of everything good and fruitful.

I grew up with the patriotism that evolved from being born into a family that moved here, and I was daily reminded of how lucky I was to be born in the United States. But slowly, as anything shiny scratches up over time, the luster of America’s promise has faded into the reality of a wan truth. Places are what we make of them, and our hope lies in the clarity of God within us. 

“God’s got it” can be a triggering statement. Those who speak it never mean for it to be, but the reality is that most of us have heard that platitude spoken by people who are either bypassing our pain or don’t want to be accountable for their part to play. I find comfort in knowing that God leads me and goes before me in all things, but what about the millions around us whose decisions resemble something other than Christ’s empathy and humility? What now, in political uncertainty? 

In some ways, knowing that the United States could be headed for dark times has been a grounding thing. Yes, there are a lot of unknowns, but we also have the example of history laid before us of what Christlike resistance can look like. I was reminded by one of the pastors at my tiny church last Sunday that it is an honor to see God’s comfort and solace within the people around us. God’s hands and feet are never more visible within God’s people when the going gets tough. I can hear Pastor Scott say, “God’s got it,” because what he means by this is that we have one another. With Jesus’ example and the Holy Spirit guiding our hearts, we can be hope for one another. 

We are entering a season of darkness. The winter solstice is quickly upon us, and when the sun sets earlier, the temptation is to hunker down in our free evening hours and tend to our hibernating hearts. However, what Christmas asks of us is to gather our people and not go about it alone. If we look beneath the soil, winter reminds us that there is strength in tending things right where they are. Not moving, not fleeing, but staying.

Like my ferns, I know belonging in this place and country. As much as I scan the many Instagram accounts for cheap homes abroad, I know my home is here. I am a hibernator who adapts, not a migrating bird- no matter how much I would like to be. But I can’t live well and thrive here without the support and the love of my community. As the frog depends on the soil around him to protect his green skin and tiny heart while it slows to a barely beating slumber, I must allow my community to share their gifts and talents, sustaining my own hope. We were made for such a time as this, but only if we have one another.