Rootless

When my dog Leo was a puppy, he chewed on everything. Literally.

Not just the usual, like shoes, books, and toys. But anything he could get a hold of. Including a porch railing. It's not like he didn't have rawhides and chew toys. He just had other ideas about what needed chewing.

So it probably shouldn't have surprised me when he chewed through the root of the grapevine on my back fence.

At first, you couldn't tell anything had happened. For a few days, the vine looked so good I started thinking there might be a second root.

Then the weather went from cool to hot. And the whole thing wilted. Fast. Because it was it cut off.

Withered vine.png

Kind of like when we cut ourselves off from God. Whether we do it dramatically or quietly, with a sudden breach or a slow drift, it's kind of the same thing.

At first, there's no difference. We're still us. We're okay.

Until things heat up. And we learn the hard way what it's like not to have roots. 

Don't get me wrong, life's troubles will come. No matter what. The only question is whether we'll be well-rooted in God when they come.

Or if we'll try to face them cut off.

Today's Readings