Suddenly, several months ago, a new desire crept into my consciousness. It was a desire to stay, to sink my roots deeply into the ground, to cast a shady branch or two over a singular plot of land.
It surprised me. I've always felt unbounded to space, beholden to an ethereal definition of purpose. The sense that I have been called to the work of the church led me to dream, think, work, live, and breath within her fleshy walls and kept me unharnessed to any earthly plot of ground. This calling kept me from laying bricks in my self-definition, kept me from digging holes in the ground and planting foundations in my vocation. Readiness to serve and grow, flexibility in the manifestation and location of this service was valued above most everything else.
And then the desire to stay was born like an "I didn't know I was pregnant" child. No warning, no symptoms. Just birth. Painful, lively birth. All of the sudden, I am contemplating how I might be serving the church as a steady, stable, rooted, shade tree rather than as a migratory, carrier pigeon.
Nesting, planting in the dirty soil of the church is a scary thing. What if I grow tired of the plot of ground that I choose (that is chosen for me)? What if the people that sit beside my tree attempt to cut down my branches? What if the birds in my limbs poo on my pretty, well-placed leaves? What if this plot of land doesn't work for me? What if I don't work well for this plot of land?
Alas, the desire and its questions remain with no real place for implementation. Another year of school looms large and blocks my view of life's horizon and this tree that rests on it. The secret, unfolding life of this seedling desire remains to be seen, but, now spoken, is no longer a secret.
This post was written alongside my fellow synchrobloggers at the
Creative Collective on the topic of "The Secret Life of Trees." Read
their posts here.