From when I was born to when I was eight, I laid down young roots, strong roots. I lived in the house I thought I’d live in my whole childhood. I had the friends I assumed I’d have my whole life. My dad had the job I thought he’d have until he retired. Then I heard we were moving to Uganda.
Truthfully, I didn’t mind being transplanted too much. I was excited to test the new soil and see the new exotic plants I’d be living with. I laid down strong roots quickly there, and soon I had as many as I had had in the States.
When we went on furlough to the U.S., and I was transplanted again, I was more cautious. I knew we’d soon be going back to Uganda, so what was the point of laying down roots? I decided subconsciously to just float along, not really caring if I didn’t make that many friends, or was involved in too many things. After a while, slowly, tentatively, I ventured to shoot a few little roots into the soil. And it was wonderful. I loved the activities I did, the wonderful people I became friends with. The roots grew a little stronger.
But it hurt to pull them out when we moved back to Uganda. Even those little roots grew straight to my heart, and tearing them out was hard. Back in Uganda, I remembered the pain of pulling out the roots just before I came. But I also remembered the joy of the strong roots I’d had before I left.
I’m still working on letting myself lay down roots, on not letting myself be so scared as to draw into myself and hold all my roots back. But since Jesus is the One who plants me where He wants me, and will always give me enough to grow and thrive, and comfort me when I’m transplanted, I’ll trust that he’ll show me where to lay down roots.