Of Weeds

My daughter wants her flowers.  Again.  Every day, as we head to the car, it's the same cry, "I get my flowers!"  Little legs run to the same flowering plant.  Every morning.  And every daawn, there it is waiting for her - a dandelion, maybe two.  From one small plant, growing larger every day, emitting from a seam in the concrete.  Every day she picks.  And every night they bloom once more, ready for her eager hands.

A weed.

That's what we would call it. 

And it kills us every time we look out upon our lawn.  Weeds.  Plants we don't want over-taking those we do.  Trying in vain to cultivate the "beautiful" and destroy the undesirable.

Yet, she sees beauty.  We may not have planted it, but the brilliant sun-yellow is beautiful to her untainted eyes.   

And here we are again, declaring ugly that which God has created - aiming always for our own inglorious view of perfection, planted in the dirty soil of our hearts by the culture surrounding.  Tear up what He has given and plant your own.  When will we learn.

His glory is in the unplanned, the wild roots sown by His hands.  Revel in the beauty.