Gianna Soderstrom
I grew up in the green and watery state of Minnesota, where the summers are scattered with long days of drizzle, but the land is scattered with ponds and lakes in more shapes than you could invent. And every summer, hours were spent out on the boat, fishing. There is a specific sequence to setting up for fishing. The first imperative is to find a good spot. Close to the reeds, but not right in next to them, and not out too deep. Then you drop anchor, hand over hand while you try not to lose your balance against the weight. Twist and knot the rope around a metal cleat on the gunwale. When Dad asks if he should pull out a rod for you, gaze pensively into the water for a moment, and conclude that you will probably do some fishing in a little bit. Then you pull out a book, find a life jacket for padding, and get comfortable somewhere out of the way of the flying fish hooks.
As much as my favorite part of fishing is reading, dropping the anchor is probably a close second. There is something almost mystic about hoisting the clanking, cast-iron anchor out of its hatch, grunting it over the gunwale and watching it slowly descend past the vanishing point in the murky water. There is a strange thrill to bracing yourself against the weight and lowering it hand over hand after it is no longer visible, marveling at the unseen depth of the water. You begin to realize, knotting the rope against the soft pull of current, that you sit on the surface of something much vaster than yourself. You have probed a single cautious depth of a lake with more hollows and currents and weedy bottoms than you can ever fully know. An anchor not only sets you in a place, but it orients you to a proper knowledge of that space; you exist here on the surface, but look as far below as you can and know that this is not all there is. You are held in one place against the slow movement of lake water and gentle wind and your very stillness reminds you that everything you thought was so unmoving and calm is shifting and flowing.
I’ve been reading at a crawl through the Old Testament, and slowly the thread of Israel’s orientation to story is becoming clear to me. It’s in the repeated phrase, “The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob”. It’s in the way Moses and then Joshua and then Samuel, as each of them is preparing to die, gathers the people of Israel and reminds them one last time of the story. From the promises made to Abraham through the exodus from Egypt, generations later. The decades of wandering through the desert, the crossing of the Jordan. Remember, they say, the God who called your ancestors. Remember the God who called us out of Egypt, who parted the sea. Remember the story.
In the Fellowship of the Ring when Frodo protests his role in the story that is unfolding, Gandalf replies, “So do I, and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” There is no questioning whether or not they are part of a story: the story is a given. Frodo has heard the tales from Bilbo since he was young. The ballads were sung in Rivendell to remind everyone of the story. Archives were kept in Minas Tirith. Lineages were traced from the Dunedain of the north back to their kingly ancestors on Numenor. Gandalf spends a full chapter telling Frodo the whole history of the Ring. The story was important. Frodo needed to know his place in the great narrative.
This culture of story is what keeps Sam and Frodo going as they reach and exceed the end of their own strength in the heart of Mordor. Sam begins to imagine whether the stories about the ring of Sauron—for stories there will be—will include them. “I wonder if we’ll ever be put into songs or tales, Mister Frodo… I wonder if people will ever say, ‘Let’s hear about Frodo and the Ring.’” This moment becomes a hopeful one: Frodo and Sam walk through the dappled woods of Ithilien and the thought of the story that continues after they are gone gives them the courage to believe they can accomplish their impossible task.
The story is not a question, it is an answer. Without it we are anchorless, adrift in a storied world without a story to make sense of it. Without a bigger narrative, it’s up to us to reinvent everything. To find a way of staying near enough to the shore without drifting into the weeds. Stories drop an anchor on a line through the murky, silty depths to something solid underneath.
I begin to weave this idea through my own thoughts. I am trimming the lilac bushes one day, hacking with more hope than skill at dead branches, pruning back anything dry that cracks easily. One moment I am blinking a flake of bark out of my eye and the next I am remembering Moses, the wandering, the story. I stand back and look at the lilac, partially pruned. Somehow under all the current of an unbeautiful yard and the knowledge that it’s almost time to make dinner, this small act of cultivation drops like an anchor through murky, timeless depths to Eden.The lilac ties a thread between me and the first garden, to one of the first human vocations. We are gardeners. I snap off a branch and drop it into the growing pile. I am kin to Adam.
On the third day God created trees and foliage, plants to bear fruit and in the spring of the year two thousand and twenty-two I am pruning a ragged lilac bush to strengthen the branches that are still alive. My life, my lilac bush, my weedy yard and the cultivation it begs fit into the same story as Eden, the first garden, the Tree of Life.
There isn’t a doubt in the world that we are in a story: everything that seems so calm and unmoving is, both within your life and beyond, shifting and flowing. The story of the world is still unfolding, still pulling you into the current, like Frodo. Let the weight of good stories anchor you through the silty centuries to what is timeless. Read Anne of Green Gables and remember that the earth is beautiful. Read Lord of the Rings and remember that there is fellowship. Read The Yearling and learn that in every grievous thing, you will be given grace. Read A Severed Wasp and know that there is great evil in the world: know that your bitterness will only augment that evil, but your acceptance gives you the power to bring great beauty into being.
Stories drop through time like an anchor on a line, tying us to all that has come before. They reach through the murky centuries, reminding us of what is true; of God and his story, the creation, fall, redemption; the restoration. Stories do not only tie us to the past, they show us the shape of the future.
In the Lord of the Rings, the story of Frodo and Sam mirrors the story of Isildur, who stood in Mount Doom after a great host of elves and men defeated the armies of Sauron. A victory was won on the plains, but Isildur would not destroy the ring. Frodo and Sam stand inside Mount Doom a few thousand years later while an army of men stands outside, surrounded, with no logical hope of victory. This time, the ring is destroyed. This time, the world that comes after is not unraveling, but being put to rights.
The story, the Great Story makes room for our fallibility, and thank heaven, because we are! But The Story also makes room for our lives and actions, no matter how small, to take part in a much bigger victory than we could ever achieve alone.
So read the great stories. Let them hold you in your place in time against the pull of the current. Read to anchor yourself past what is visible to what is solid. Read to learn the shape of the future, the great restoration, and take hope. And read to tie yourself to this year, this month, this very moment. Let the stories shape and mold what you do with the time that is given to you.
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Gianna Soderstrom is a writer and staff member of the Anselm Society Arts Guild. Gianna is a mountain dweller, but also at heart a Minnesota lakes girl. She is the giver of goldfish crackers and piggy back rides to the two littles; owner of too many blue striped shirts. Adventure-hearted, but also a connoisseur of cozy, hot-chocolate evenings. Amateur wildflower naturalist, picker of wild raspberries. Writer, dreamer, wife to Grant, mama to two delightful little humans. And more than the sum of her parts; just like you. She writes on Instagram and everywhere else to bring hope out of our ordinary moments.
Photo by Jonathan Petersson.