“Rooted and built up in Him, established in the faith as you were taught, overflowing with thanksgiving.”

    I didn’t become “rooted” overnight. The truth is, when I first believed, I was fragile, easily shaken, easily discouraged, and easily distracted. My friends worked in the dye shops while I worked at the mill. Life was loud, chaotic, and unpredictable.

    People argued about politics more than they spoke of peace. The streets could turn violent without warning. Money was tight, and food didn’t always last. I tried to follow Jesus, but it felt like every part of my life was caught in a storm. One day, after hearing Paul’s letter, I felt overwhelmed. Everyone else seemed so certain, so steady, while I felt like a young plant trying to grow in hard, unforgiving soil.

   I went to see Marcus, one of the elders. He had been a fisherman before meeting the Lord, his hands were rough and calloused, his voice gentle, his eyes tired yet bright. I told him honestly, “I don’t know how to stay rooted. I feel pulled in every direction.” He didn’t correct me or preach a sermon. Instead, he simply said, “Let’s walk.”

    We headed toward the edge of the city, where the soil was soft and the fields stretched wide. He pointed to an olive tree with roots so thick they broke through the earth like veins. “That tree isn’t strong because it wished to be,” he said. “It’s strong because it stayed where it was planted.” I asked him how I was supposed to do that? In this time, in this chaos, in this uncertainty I needed something practical, not just poetic. This is what he taught me:

🌿 1. He taught me to talk to people who were rooted, not loud.

    He said: “Find people who endure storms, not people who admire themselves.” So, I spent time with the older believers like
the widow who lived down the road, the workers who were tried and exhausted, the ones who didn’t talk long but prayed deeply for everyone. They didn’t know everything… but they knew God.

🌿 2. He showed me how to pray the way the early church prayed.

    Not fancy prayers. Not long prayers. Not public prayers. Simple ones. I’d kneel in the corner of my small room and say: “Jesus,
root me deeper. Build me up. Establish me. Let thanksgiving rise in me.” Sometimes I said it once.  Sometimes I said it all night. Sometimes I only breathed His name because I couldn’t form words. Marcus told me: “Prayer doesn’t grow your roots.
Staying in Christ does. Prayer keeps your heart soft enough for Him to do the work.” So, I kept praying, listening and waiting.

🌿 3. I returned to the teachings repeatedly.

    When fear crept in, I didn’t have parchment to write anything down. People like me rarely did. Instead, I went back to the lessons we were taught in our gatherings—words passed from voice to voice long before they reached any scroll. I repeated them quietly as I worked, sometimes ten times or more in a single day. I mouthed them under my breath while carrying grain or turning the mill. At night, when the city fell silent, I whispered them again into the darkness, letting them steady me when my thoughts felt scattered.

    I learned to listen closely whenever the elders read aloud, trying to catch each phrase before it slipped away. I held those words in my mind the way others held tools in their hands—tightly, intentionally, knowing they were necessary for survival. Little by little, the repetition settled inside me like rich earth pressed around a young root. The teachings became steady, familiar, a place for my faith to anchor. I didn’t realize it at first, but the more I held onto those words, the deeper my roots grew—not through ink, but through remembrance, submission, and the quiet determination to cling to what was true even when everything around me felt uncertain.

🌿 4. I confessed my weaknesses.

    This one was the hardest. I told Marcus when I doubted the bills would get paid. I told Lydia when I worried about my aunt. I told the brothers when I felt ashamed for falling again. They never mocked me, not even once. They never scolded me. Instead, they’d place a hand on my shoulder and pray softly: “Strengthen him, Lord.  Root him deeper.”  I’ve learned that community is part of the soil, and when I feel weak, I can draw from their strength, their stories, and their testimonies.

🌿 5. I practiced thanksgiving in small, hidden ways.

    At first, it felt forced and awkward. Something would happen, and I’d say, “Thanks, Lord,” my voice solemn and empty. At times, it felt almost dishonest. But Marcus said, “Thanksgiving is a muscle. Use it when it’s small, and it grows.” In the beginning, I thanked God for the small, easy things, light in the window, a day that went well, a verse I understood better, the change I found in a corner. Slowly, I began to overflow with thanksgiving not loudly or dramatically, but steadily, in small increments. What once felt fake and forced began to grow, like water rising inside a vessel until it reaches the brim and slips over the edge with ease.

🌿 6. I endured by staying where Christ placed me.

    I didn’t chase signs, new philosophies, or emotional highs. I stayed grounded as much as I could in the teachings, in prayer, in community. Most importantly, I stayed connected to Christ. No matter what happened, I trained myself to run to Him. I let Him build, establish, and set the pace for my growth. One day during worship, as we sang with tired voices, it hit me: I wasn’t shaking anymore. Not because life got easier, not because danger had passed, and not because everything made sense.  

    It was because my roots had gone deep, and gratitude rose from a place I didn’t know existed. When Paul wrote, “Rooted and built up in Him, established in the faith, overflowing with thanksgiving,” I finally understood—he wasn’t describing a feeling, but a life Christ Himself shapes from the inside out.  

    And I realized I am being rooted, built up, and established. All I have to do is remain in Him. The overflow is His work—here, even now, especially here.  

This is a letter from a man who has nothing, writing to a church with almost nothing.

EARLY CHURCH UNDERSTANDING — Quiet Depth

When your life is rooted in Christ, thanksgiving becomes inevitable,
not because the season is pleasant but because the foundation is unshakeable.

Thanksgiving is not a mood. It is the symptom of deep roots.

KEY WORDS (Greek)

Every root metaphor in Scripture leads to the same truth: Fruit comes from foundation, not feeling.

Abba,
Root me where Your love holds firm.
Build me in the quiet places no one sees.
Establish me again when I feel shaken.
And let thanksgiving overflow
not because life is easy,
but because You are steady.

Let me see the world the way you do with a heart of love, 
So that I can love the world the way you love the world.
Don't let me fall for the tactics of the enemy.
Help me live according to your word.

The Church that Jesus left set the bar for endurance,
help us strive for that bar.
Amen.