Tentacles

Once I saw a time-lapse video of a vine growing. The plant sent out frail little tendrils, extending them into the air. The tiny tendrils swirled in a circular motion, reaching for something to grasp.

When the tendril at last made contact with something, it curled around it in a spiral, growing longer and embracing the object more and more securely. Eventually, the vine would thicken and strengthen and tighten its grip on whatever it had encountered.

I have seen this process at work in my front yard. We have a wisteria plant that takes over the handrail leading to the front door. We call it our monster plant because if we don't trim it regularly it seems to reach out to our visitors, seeking to trip them up and keep them from our front porch.

I've been out of the country for ten days, away from my job and office for a two full weeks. As I drove to work this morning, I mused at how 'separated' I felt from my job. The challenges of the office seemed sort of removed from my heart.

I reflected that it has been good to strip the tendrils away for a period of time. Only by clearing away the entanglements of my job did I recognize how intertwined with it I had become. Only by stepping away from the demands of my position was I able to see myself separated from the identity of my job title.

It also made me think that this is the way we are overtaken by the world, by worldliness . . . not by a vicious onslaught, but by tiny creeping tendrils that seem harmless. Frail little ties to the cares of this earth. Daily tasks and responsibilities that supplant God gradually but surely.