Roots

But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,
whose confidence is in him.
They will be like a tree planted by the water
that sends out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes;
its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought
and never fails to bear fruit.
Jeremiah 17:7-8

I've learned a lot about roots in this season. The metaphorical roots that bind us to people and places. Literal roots that dig deep into earth. Thistle tap roots that break at the top of the soil, leaving an unreachable stem to spring up again. Crab grass roots that clammer and climb, poking out at every joint that touches dirt. Spreading black medic that branches several feet in every direction from a single cluster of thread-like roots. Spiritual roots that keep me grounded when everything feels like shifting sand.

Here in Southern California, the sun bakes the earth ten months each year. The parched ground cries for water, even in the years we aren't officially in a drought. And thus, without artificial watering, the plants shrivel and brown and go dormant. This year, the rains came hard and heavy and the dead, dry earth sprang to abundant life. Which is lovely and welcome and full of weeds. More weeks than not, I fill our green waste bin with weeds and rouge grass. Pound upon pound of hop clover and mugwort and nutsedge. It's therapeutic to feel the roots pop free from the soil. To clear paths and garden beds from invasive species. Some I've left, regulated to smaller clusters.

On weekday mornings, after I drop the kids at school, I take a few moments to survey the grounds. I check on recent transplants. Look for blooms on flowering stalks. Test the potted plants' moisture and replant succulents that haven't quite figured out their root systems yet. Often, I end up in the front yard, pulling weeds from the tree lawn. No other place has become quite as overrun as the freshly mulched tree lawn.

In my knock-off Ugg boots and a trucker hat I snitched from my daughter, I pluck what I can for the few minutes I can justify putting off the rest of the morning. Every couple of minutes, a neighbor strolls by, usually led by a dog. "You've got your work cut out for you." Indeed I do.

Because roots grow far below the surface and while I know the roots I'm putting down here may be ripped up again, I also know that something will stay behind and grow into more. Jesus compared the kingdom of heave to a mustard weed - an invasive, persistent nuisance that had no business in a garden. And then he suggested that this viral weed that takes over everything would draw in the birds of the air, inviting the enemy of any well-kept garden to nest in its branches.

Deep roots and open branches. That's how we usher in the kingdom of God. That's how we build heaven on earth.

My favorite unknown neighbor wandered past me last week. He lives in a house the exact color of Pepto. Each morning, he walks one or two of his three little black dogs at the same time we head to school. For almost two years, we've smiled and wished him a good morning as our paths crossed. He walks with a slight limp and has the kind of face that seems to be growing in on itself, with his nose and chin inching ever closer together. Over two years, we've watched his countenance change. Now he smiles and gives us a quick nod, but two years ago, he was grump. Last week, while I rooted out bunch after bunch of Wood Sorell from among the irises, lantana and ice plant, he paused. "You've got your work cut out for you." Indeed I do. We chatted a few moments, nothing of consequence, but enough that I hope he feels seen and valued.

Deep roots and open branches. Loving our neighbors well. Ushering in the kingdom of heaven on earth. And maybe clearing some weeds while I'm at it.