to be rooted
I am a writer. We artists are known to stand on shifting sands; one day it is feast, the next it is famine. Is it foolishness to pursue what we love, what we feel called to pour ourselves into, knowing we will rarely, if ever, be secure?
But what does secure mean? If it means to never find yourself desperately needing a miracle and thus never receiving one, to never know consolation made tremendously sweet by desolation, to foresee the future as clearly as if you’ve already lived it . . . I would rather continue being a leaf on the wind—but rooted in Divine Providence. Yes, if holding fast to that pencil, that brush, that guitar means not knowing how I shall eat tomorrow—but also that I will know euphoria at being saved, once again, by a thread . . . I will hold fast, in faith.
I am young, but I have seen wonders. I’ve been blessed to call many exquisitely beautiful places home, to call many golden people family, to find love where I would not have if the Lord had not opened doors. Yes, He had to open those doors, because I own no key (I could not afford a key to such realms). And if I did own a key, would I open the right doors? I know myself. I know I would shy from the threshold that is darkened by the unknown—not realizing that just beyond is a light-filled garden teeming with wonders.
Be it foolish in the world’s eyes, I hold fast to my pencil, because I know how Divine Providence has transformed my life. It has allowed me to live without the boundaries that permanence, comfort, and wealth impose. Insecurity has lifted my feet from the earth, that I may see from a vantage I never could have reached otherwise.
When I am insecure, I am free.