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Roots and Wings

ByMichael Somerville

I believe that one of the sadder things that you could say of someone is that they have lost their history. 

Almost as bad would be to say that they have lost their legends, for without these, we find ourselves cast adrift in a sea of influences that tug at us as we wallow helplessly in cultural currents, unable to steer or shape our own direction.

Stories matter. They ground us and define who we are.

Making Myself At Home

J. R. R. Tolkien, living in the early 1900’s, was troubled by the poverty of myths for his own English people. Lacking anyone to tell him not to, he wrote his own stories. In part, they would be a home for his ideas and languages. In part, he dedicated them as a mythology for his home country of England. His work, while fantastical, drew from many deeply-rooted influences and was laced with his much-admired qualities of “northernness”. 

As a boy, I stumbled into Tolkien’s world of Middle-earth. The Hobbit started it. Quickly, it became my favorite playground. His stories, characters, and themes fired my imagination and fueled my longing to join him in the work of sub-creation. Even then, I dreamed of bringing my own worlds to life, longing to visit places never seen except by the eye of my imagination. I drew so many maps.

Unguarded Gardens

Years later, as a young parent, I saw my three daughters growing up in a world crammed full of stories. Storybook princesses and pop stars competed for their attention with eye-catching glitter, magic, and – of course – the pretty dresses. 

These stories were carried on the winds of popular culture and dropped their seeds into the fertile soil of young minds. But many were invasive species. I knew that, if left unguarded, my daughter’s minds would become untended jungles, filled with false dreams that would leech life from their young souls. 

Rather than feeding them, these stories threatened to poison their imaginations and turn them inward instead of upward. Yet what to do? What could keep them from being caught in our collective cultural drift, circling that drain that threatens to spiral ever-inward? How could I resist its insidious strength?

Roots and Anchors

I wanted better for them. Rather than cast them adrift to fend for themselves, I wanted to give them roots that would anchor them. I wanted them to be planted deeply in the stories, legends, and tales of our family, our culture, and our faith. I wanted these roots to be strong, tough, and deep, so that when their surrounding world tried to define their identity, they could say with confidence, “No. I already know who I am.”

This desire – which I believe is good and natural – flowed from my own experience with the protective power of a strong foundation of identity-shaping stories. My own family grew up hearing stories of our ancestor who slew a Scottish dragon. (I’m not kidding. Look it up. The Linton Worm. It’s a great story.) 

I grew up learning and loving the stories of our country’s history, recognizing in them both the successes and failures. These are important to my understanding of who I am and of my responsibilities as a citizen who has been entrusted with the grand experiment of self-government. 

I grew up with the stories of the Bible, seeing myself and my neighbors through its truth-telling lens. But the best – the most important story – was the one about the baby who was born in a manger and who would grow up to become the king who died to save his people from our curse. You know the one. Because he lives again, so will I. I know the end of my story. 

It says, “Death has been swallowed up in victory!”

Giving the Giver’s Gifts

Having received them, I wanted to give these same good gifts to my children. In this, I act as my father acted, and his, and so on. Moreover, I act as my Heavenly Father acts. He is the Giver. Wanting good things for my girls, I told them the old stories, and I sang them the old songs. 

But we didn’t stop there. We made up new tales. This was done from love, not fear, for we still enjoyed the world in which we lived, with its showy princesses and the pop-star magic and – of course – the pretty dresses. Yet we showed them the trick mirrors and stagecraft. And we told our own stories.

Over time, my daughters have grown roots. They have come to know the King and have found their place in his story. When they leave home one day, I trust they will flourish in new soil, having been strengthened by the old fertilizer that my wife and I gave them.

Wings and Sails

Even more than roots, I wanted to give my children wings. I wanted their ships to have sails. 

I wanted to have them take their place aboard Elven ships that would sail the straight path to undying lands, to give them keys to wardrobes that opened their doors into winter woods, and to point them toward rabbit-trails that would lead them deep into the Mended Wood. 

Their imaginations were made to soar, and I want them to visit worlds unknown. Longing for this, I shared what I had been given and kept looking for more. As they stretched their young wings, I enjoyed flying along with them. I made indulging our imaginations something that we did together. 

Even now, I am still delighted as they make their own stories, art, and – of course – pretty dresses. 

Our journey isn’t over yet. You see, in his great story, my King has promised that no eye can see, no ear can hear, and no mind can imagine what he has prepared for those who love him. 

But nothing says I can’t try! Let’s soar!

Michael Somerville
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