Hold fast, says the writer of Hebrews.
It’s May again, and
tendrils of vine
finger our wall,
inching along
toward the shadows
where each rosy tip
swells, anchoring
like the little pads
on a gecko’s feet.
Each breathes,
feels for the vertical
with sinewy
footings, splayed yet
elastic. Only
the plant’s steps
leave a mark (We are
still here), a hidden
holdfast
beneath unfurling leaves.
“Holdfasts,” we call them. In the plant world they anchor vines, lichens, even various seaweeds to some form of substrate or structure.
Here’s the author of Hebrews again, this time in The Message: “[Y]ou need to stick it out. . . . It won’t be long now . . . stay with it and survive, trusting all the way.”
Will our faith count for more than a ghosting remembrance, a slight stain left behind in places we’ve been, amid people and flora and fauna we’ve loved? Where’s the beauty in that?
Amid all that fractures within and around us, is sticking it out enough?
Author Sarah Clarkson writes, “God gives us beauty, not as his argument but as his offering—a gift that immerses us in something that allows us to touch hope, to taste healing, to tangibly encounter something opposite to disintegration . . .”
As Virginia Creeper clings to our wall, and as dementia stalks our path, Dreamer and I try to hold fast to this promise: By God’s gift, believers possess the mind of Christ.
Friends in the faith, I also know this. Whatever our reach, our literal touch—curtailed as it is—often embodies Jesus touching others through us.
Remember the gentle practice of prayer via the laying on of hands, in the Savior’s name? Love, with skin on.
When God’s love supports and directs our growth, it also anchors our rooting as well as our reaching.
“It is Christ, working through us, who does this,” Ronald Rolheiser writes. “The power is still with God, not with us, but in the incarnation God has chosen, marvelously, to let his power flow though us, to let our flesh give reality to his power.”
Oh look! A swoosh of iridescence overhead—a swallow, circling the vines that wreathe our birdhouse. Half-hidden, it crowns the retaining wall. Beyond, in the crab apple tree a reedy voice calls up a song. Her mate? She makes another pass, swooping closer. As if she remembers. As if she knows somewhere amid the tangle a haven awaits.
She carries a twig in her beak . . .
then enters the opening.
God, our holdfast, be here with us in the shadows.
Friends, what helps you hold fast?
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Autumn Creeper Photo by Sam Goodgame on Unsplash
Vines with lantern: Photo by Yurii Zinets on Unsplash
B&W Vines around Windows Photo by Greg Willson on Unsplash
A profound book that keeps reminding me Christ is our Vine and we are the branches:
