on weeds

Spent the morning elbows-deep in weeds at my parent's house. Forgot how much I enjoy fighting plant-bed chaos. Most change in life is so slow; yard work somehow curbs my helpless impatience. Just a couple hours, one rake, three trashbags, two grimy hands and - presto - the jungle becomes a bit less terrifying, the flowers actually have room to breathe.

Bent over one particularly over-run section, I concluded that there are weeds with a lowercase "w" and then there are WEEDS. You know, the feisty ones with deep, wide-spread roots and thick stalks. Surprisingly, though, the immature, whispy weeds - not the settled one - frustrated me way more. Though it takes force, I could actually grip the WEEDS and rip the whole root systems out. Not so with the thin buggers that snapped at the first tug, leaving phantom roots still embedded. I looked at the soil, weedless on the surface, and couldn't quite be satisfied.

Like those weeds, seems much easier to name and deal with big questions, blaring rebellion, and heart-wrenching pain in the world. The flimsy, everyday brokenness of life seems so inconsequential and yet has the same power to numb, strip, and erode. Needing a grace today that rips up roots of all flavors, thankful for the One who is at work in the little things