Phragmites

It’s time.

It’s time to start writing again. Or at least start sharing. Tears almost fill my eyes as I set my fingers to the keyboard. It’s been too long. I’m ready now.

Yesterday, a friend of mine posted a video to a song on my Facebook wall, It is Well.  There’s a line that says, “And this mountain that’s in front of me/Will be thrown into the midst of the sea” (Read more: Bethel Music – It Is Well Lyrics | MetroLyrics) It had reminded me of a prompt I had done in a writing class I had taken about three years ago, which in turn prompted me to take out that floral print, spiral-bound notebook. As I flipped through the pages to find that particular prompt, I scanned the countless other prompts I had written, many of which about I had forgotten. And I was taken aback at how, though I had written about entirely different circumstances, that three years later, much of it is applicable to things I’m experiencing now or have experienced in the time since then. I was taken to one particular entry that seemed especially fitting, and felt compelled to share it today. It was a twenty-minute prompt titled, “Phragmites,” that was written some time in the spring of 2012.


“Phragmites”

She’s beautiful.
She stands tall, brave, confident–but not rigid, like she’s bracing herself for a blow, fearful she might be uprooted and topple over if she’s not strong enough.
No, she knows better now.
She knows because she’s tried and failed. Tried to be strong on her own, tried to think if she managed to stay put, stay rooted in the ground, that it was her own doing. But it never was.
And it wasn’t until the fiercest of storms blew through that threatened to destroy her that she knew: phragmites were never designed to be rigid. They’re supple. They bend and they sway, seemingly at the mercy of the waves and the rain. But they’re not. If their roots grow deep, they may be bent to the ground, but not cast off. And turns out, being bent to the ground is one of the most beautiful things. Painful, yes–but it’s then that you know that the only way you can get up again is when He stoops down and gently wraps His fingers around you, pulling you to standing. You’re weak and fragile and bend easily at the slightest breeze, but He’s there to catch you, pull you upright again, and you get stronger.
That’s what she learned after the wind whipped through her hair so hard, it threatened to knock the wind out of her. And the waves, they beckoned her, threatened to pull her away for good.
She lay still, almost lifeless. But her roots, they grew deep, and strong. She was still connected to her foundation.
And as He pulled her up and she looked into His compassionate eyes, rested against His gentle hands, she knew.
She knew the memorizing Bible verses and going to Sunday School weren’t just for being a good little girl and getting a pat on the back. They were for the storms. They were for knowing when you’re knocked on your back, there’s nothing you can do to lift yourself back up. There’s only remembering you lie on a firm foundation, established by the One who extends His hand to you, to offer you life anew.
And for her, it’s never been the same since.