Weed I must.

Look at that weed clump, rooted in, replenishing its life at cost of frail flowers and soft leaves and beauty—encroaching around them like a stalking strangler, to take over life, rob breath.

With mere gloved hands, as I most often work these soft beds built up tender over years, I can’t loose its power grasp. Deeper stronger tools I need. And then it’s hook the claw around and yank, yank, yank, to free the smallest part—over and again, straining shoulder muscles, breaking sweat. Nearly half an hour’s work on what was, not long past, one tiny weed.

But rainstorms and hard heat and harvest and over-busy calendar precluded noticing its stealth before the menace tightened its grip.

Now those insidious creeping roots reach so tangling into others better than themselves, that pull I must at the cost of new beloved sprouts.

I sigh. How like my earthtime! I need weeding, and need to weed. I overlook, neglect the duty, and God weeds. And the pulling tears at my heart sometimes, as it strips away well-loved hopeful things—though I find in fact sometimes that all along they too were weeds!

Life weeding can be painful. But beyond the rips and losses, sweat and tears, I breathe fuller, fresher, freer air, and send outward from my heart new roots, new shoots, new buds and blossoms otherwise never to have grown and bloomed.

Thank You, Lord, for weedings.