Spiritual Metaphors

Spiritual Words and Symbols

Sometimes the most profound spiritual revelations emerge from the most unexpected places, hidden like treasures beneath layers of seemingly mundane circumstances. Fifteen years ago, when my husband and I were handed the leadership of New Life Church, we inherited not just a congregation but a metaphorical foundation in desperate need of restoration—both physically and spiritually. The church building, constructed in 1965 by 60 faith-filled individuals, had been built directly atop a flowing aquifer, allowing water to steadily erode its structural integrity. When God spoke two simple words to us—"Restore the Foundation"—we understood this was far more than a construction project; it was a divine invitation to spiritual excavation. As we literally dug down to the river bottom, securing breaches in the physical structure, we simultaneously embarked on a supernatural journey of healing. The congregation's collective labor became a metaphor for spiritual reconstruction: broken families were mended, addictions were conquered, and individuals found renewed purpose. What began as a structural repair transformed into a profound communal restoration, with each shovelful of dirt representing the removal of emotional and spiritual debris from people's hearts. Years later, when the congregation gifted us a plaque beneath a towering Sycamore tree in downtown Santa Barbara—a gift I initially received with disappointment—God whispered words that would reshape my entire understanding of calling: "Amy, don't despise this gift. I have rooted and planted you in Santa Barbara." Those words, inscribed both literally on a plaque and metaphorically in my soul, became a constant reminder that our spiritual journeys are rarely about where we want to be, but about fully embracing where we are planted. Even now, as my husband and I approach our 60th year and contemplate "what's next," I understand that uprooting is not simple—it requires carefully blasting away soil without damaging delicate roots, risking interruption of the very nutrients that sustain growth. My longing for elsewhere has transformed into a deep appreciation for the intricate ways God cultivates purpose in unexpected soil, teaching me that true spiritual maturity isn't about constant movement but about depth of rootedness and willingness to flourish exactly where we are placed.