Roots make my mother, and they made me.
I come from a long line of very strong women. Among us we have overcome poverty, loneliness, abandonment, starvation, ignorance, and abuse, for a start.
These are women who seek strength outside ourselves, but not from other people – from God. Other people, in our experience, disappoint. We don’t want to be dependent on what will let us down, so instead we’re independent. To a fault.
When the chips are down and the going gets tough, we pray and we remember all those women before us. “At least my husband is still around.” “At least the house payment is made.” “At least I had money to buy that loaf of bread.” “At least I got here in time.”
Our roots are tough. The family stories are all stories about how things got bad but we (they) survived. So I know that I (part of them) can survive, too.
I am not only a root, for my stem and leaves and blossoms have set me apart from my beginnings. But I know I have roots, and I know that they made the beginnings of me. And when things get bad, I know where to look, even if only in memory.
I have roots, so I am strong. I got at least some of those roots from my mother.