what the weeds need.
My littlest boy squealed with delight as he walked past the garden by our front door. “PINK FLOWERS! Look, Mommy! Look!” We walk past these knockout rose bushes almost everyday together, but for whatever reason on this particular day, they caught his eye. The little bush he was admiring was actually drowning in weeds and grass that had jumped the border, and I realized it had become quite a bit smaller than the other ones. “Operation Save the Shrimpy Rose Bush” had officially begun, as I grabbed my gardening gloves and old kitchen trash can I use to collect my scraps and trimmings in, and got to plucking.
Weeding is such a tedious chore, but I actually kind of love it. It’s (mostly) quiet, and I can usually think more clearly and chew on the day’s thoughts while still feeling productive. A lot of the weeds were easy, pinch-and-pull little guys. But then I came across a few spiky ones that snuck up on me. With these I had to move a little dirt aside and get down as close to the root as I could, slowly tugging to make sure it didn’t snap too early and shoot a new one right back out. My weeding conquest kept going beyond the small pink flowered bush into the back part of the garden, and that’s where I found it. The gnarliest weed yet. No exaggeration, it had shot a thick spiky branch about ten feet in length. I don’t even know how I had missed this one for so long. I guess it had just camouflaged itself and woven its way into the larger back bushes. This one couldn’t be easily unrooted like the others had been, I had to bring in the big guns. I got the clippers and trimmed it down so it wouldn’t pull a Jumanji move on me or anything, and then I got the shovel out and started carefully digging it up. As I pulled the roots out, I was shocked at how little they were for such a big weed. In that moment I realized that the things I don’t want to grow don’t need much. They just need me to not notice them for awhile, and enough time to wreak some havoc. Having had ample time to grow some pretty fierce thorns, I had to decide if the risk of the wound was worth reaching the root.
I’ve got some thorns in me, ones my gloves couldn’t protect me from, but now me and my boy can both admire together the little pink flowers that were given another chance.
I’ve been praying lately that the Lord would show me my sin, in a hold my face still and make me look at it kind of way. It’s funny how many times he uses my littlest boy to bring it to my attention. In my own heart, there are still things threatening to choke out the joy and freedom promised in Christ, and I can’t ignore them. Their thorns made a crown that pierced my Savior’s brow. But He could see what we never could: the redemption of all Creation, the way it was always meant to be, reconciliation between us and God the Father, the holy of holies.
Lord, I’m digging around but I need you to help me find the root. I don’t want to look away from it and pretend it isn’t there. I don’t want to be afraid of how much it will hurt to wrap both hands around it and pull. Your hands bled too, and you counted it a joy because you knew what it would bring. It was pure love, the truest kind.
Forgive my apathy towards my sin, Lord. Forgive my pride and self-righteousness, my inability to even recognize it for what it is. Forgive me for the hurt I caused others out of my own prickliness. Make me more like you, Lord. You truly are patient, and so, so kind. Help me grasp more fully the depth and wonders of your love, that my heart might be a blossom that you greatly delight in.
