gripping the roots

I feel sometimes that I have just come up for air. I have just surfaced from deep waters, from drowning, and I am gasping, gasping at the air, gasping at the miracle of surviving and being alive. Well, well. It's funny, but I believe that I too can find rest and ultimate peace in God. It's funny because it feels so...well, predictable? Or rather like I am surrendering to the inevitable, exhausted from resisting the age old testimony of so many wayward souls, drunkards and gluttons, who collapse into a pool of tears and mercy—on their knees in surrender, gripping the roots of God. Funny because the words that have always been above my head and at my heels have burst forth, shot through the marrow of my experience, and become Living Bread—grace and forgiveness in the blood and bone. Living. And these coddled concepts are no longer cognitive but Living, and I am surrendered to them in total surprise.