Weeds

Day after day the skies cry down onto an already water-logged earth. My garden is saturated, not flooded like some poor folks’ gardens and houses are, but basically, it’s had enough. The potatoes are probably rotting underground. Nothing is growing except the weeds.

Why do weeds flourish when all else withers? When glorious roses mould on the stems? When marigolds sit like statues, neither growing nor dying but remaining static, stoic perhaps under the onslaught from the heavens.

I don’t know. 

But the parallel is obvious in my own life. Critical attitudes are encouraged by what I read in the news. Today’s cultural assumption that we are wonderful makes me believe it.  Society’s assertion that we deserve the best because we’re worth it inflates my pride. 

We don’t deserve the best. But God has given us his best anyway. He’s given us his son, to bear our sins on the cross, to set us free from the consequences of our fallen natures. 

We don’t deserve it, that’s for sure. 

That’s grace.