I grew up with more roots than a redwood. Most of them were so evident I could’ve given you a tour – “This is my house. I’ve lived here since I was born. My family’s been in West Virginia for generations. My classmates haven’t changed since kindergarten. I go to church three times a week, and that’s my pastor’s house across the street.” 

You can imagine how I learned to love consistency, security, the familiar. Nowhere feels like home unless it’s caught between hillsides, overwhelmed with trees, and uncomfortably humid.  But the house, the church, the school – they’re no longer actors on the stage of my life. Time, that ceaseless conqueror, brings an end to many things. We grow up. People die, friends move away, trees fall. 

And I wonder – are our roots only the nostalgic places and people of childhood? The things that can be uprooted and torn apart with a sharp pull, or are our roots untouchable? The elements like love and faithfulness and friendship. The pieces that build a home. A life.

Now that I live in the Texas plains with a single live oak for a tree, nothing makes me feel more rooted than my wedding ring. Tommy designed it – delicate leaves that nestle into a halo around the center stone, an unapologetic reminder of home and the things I love most.

It lives on my finger in the best of times and the worst of times. In moments of celebration and heartache. On sleepless nights and languid Saturday mornings. When I am happy and when I want to run away, unsure where I want to run to.

There was a particularly horrible exam in pharmacy school when I sat squirming, heart pounding, entire body nauseatingly hot, as the answers wriggled just out of reach. I remember staring down at my ring for a few moments – steadied by the reality of something that mattered more than grades.

There were other days, too. Sitting in the emergency room, ring pressed up into my palm, while Mom struggled to breathe. Waiting for the bus on my first day of residency, ring spinning anxiously.  

This ring tells me that life won’t always be this way. It transcends the moment. It is a constant. A reminder. It whispers stories of past adventure and conversations. It speaks of dreams and future days – a future that is not dependent on success at work or avoided mistakes or smooth sailing. 

To be loved regardless. To be loved despite. To be loved for always. It brings such a tremendous amount of courage. It’s my deepest root. It tethers me to perspective – that life is bigger, deeper, more meaningful than a single day or a single year.

But as much as I rely on my family’s love, I must recognize its finite limitations. Humans loving other humans – a countless number of books and movies and podcasts attempt to explore the myriad of ways in which it fails. Our human love is desperately imperfect, as nuanced as lake water. Some stretches clear and unwrinkled, a shimmering reflection of sun, and others muddy and turbulent. Our love is often beset with selfishness and pretense, mixed motivation and pride. 

When we rely solely on human love to set us on firm ground, to be the strongest root, to provide courage for tomorrow, we are destined to fall. Because asking another person to be your ground will be about as effective as stepping onto water. It cannot hold. It never will. 

There has to be more for me. A belief in something that can never fail. This wedding ring is a reminder that I am loved, but marriage and family and friendship were only ever intended to be reflections of a perfect love. I am loved wholly by the One who created me. Who knows me through and through and is incapable of pretension or mixed motivation.

Therein lies the whole of my courage. I’m rooted to Christ. Other roots may fail me, but that one can’t. Still, I struggle to believe it. My emotion gets in the way, confusing and discouraging. But if anyone knows that, God does. So he shows us in other ways, in these roots we can touch and feel. 

Which is why there are still days that I long for my earliest roots. For the home on the hill. The sound of night bugs and tree frogs. The coal train in the distance. When I long for those faded roots, I look at my ring. I remember that the essence of those roots – the ones I could once feel – still endure. Love, friendship, understanding, kindness, beauty in the ordinary – they arrive sometimes in new shapes and sometimes in memory only.

Of course it’s never without loss. There is no replacement for a father’s voice or the piano music that lived between the walls. No substitute for the St. Bernard that slept at the foot of the bed. But when the ache becomes too much to bear, I try to think about the new home and the family we’re building – our baby that’s growing like a wildflower in a rainy spring. 

Sometime in the future, this same baby may hold my fading hand and wish for his or her earliest roots. And in that moment, all that either of us will have is a hope in the forever future. In the Root that can never be destroyed. Loved regardless, despite, and for always. Secure in the One who will take us Home.