Killing Weeds

Interlocking stone

Between the bricks the gaps are home for ants and other creepy crawlers. Rain washes sand away, birds drop seeds: weeds and sometimes pretty plants, take to rooting into the ground. Left to their own growing devices, they reach for the sky in what looks like a miniature grid forest. Killing them seems cruel, since they live outside and it really isn't their fault that they sprouted where they were planted by an unseen hand. Kill them I must: this pesky green display ruins the neat and clean image that proud homeowners aspire to. I like neat and clean, it helps me make sense of the world.

Nothing makes sense

If only I could feel that sense of ease that comes with the knowledge of life making sense. Nothing seems to make sense ... there is ordered chaos and it makes me feel insecure. I wonder what God is up to, despite trusting Him and His plan. I would still appreciate some intel.

Common thematic interest

I feel like one of the weeds, planted in a place I do not belong. To borrow a phrase, this is the longest summer of my discontent. It has lasted five years, and I am not confident that a reprieve will be administered any time soon. I know I am not alone. I know that the strangeness is felt and a no going back sentiment is settling into many a soul. We are now unified in ways that we had never anticipated, nor desired. We have a common thematic interest, one and all, and it is an unholy link with the dark realm. We see the enemy in his full regalia, boasting and busting wide open with pride, and it sickens the spirit. It feels like going in and out of a nightmare, one that holds you down in your bed unable to scream, let alone get up. Have you ever had one of those nightmares, dear reader? The kind that pins you to your mattress, causing incapacitation?

I could look up scripture

I wonder about God and what He is up to. I wonder about victory, and how long we must gaze into the eyes of the dark ones while they spew their death wishes, unabashedly set on kill auto pilot. I could look up some scripture here and now to speak their future and ours, but that is not going to scratch my itch. I am itching to know what the plan is, and what I am supposed to do.

Small circle

I realized tonight that I have some pent up anger. It comes from disappointment in myself and other: it comes from a resolve to getting used to certain things as they are. Being pragmatic is rarely entertaining; at the very least, it is honest. I am getting used to a very small circle of people I intimately interact with. I am getting used to the fragility of relationship. I am getting used to here today, gone tomorrow. I am getting used to a light dusting of sadness from my sandpapered soul, that is nearly impossible to wash or blow off. It is only when I drive myself with exercise that I feel as though I may be able to fight the feeling, to shake it from me ... 

Although the fig tree shall not blossom, 

neither shall fruit be in the vines;

the labour of the olive shall fail, 

and the fields shall yield no meat;

the flock shall be cut off from the fold,

and there shall be no herd in the stalls:

Yet I will rejoice in the LORD,

I will joy in the God of my salvation

Habakkuk 3:17-18

Eyes trained on God

I have had to ask God for forgiveness lately. I am not rejoicing in Him, as Habakkuk did ... I am clearly, very attached to what is happening in this world, in my life, and in the lives of the people I care about, rather than keeping my eyes trained on God and glorifying Him, no matter the circumstances. It isn't a crisis of faith, it is more like an ugly anticipation of what is to come, rather than thanking Him for what is. I am an ingrate! Ha, labelling "it" for what "it" is, is a slight relief. 

I have much to be grateful for, including the knowledge that the world is in Godly Hands, no matter what the demonically driven feign. To say this isn't new, that nothing is new under the sun, doesn't change the fact that yucky feels, well, yucky. Knowing that Satan's committed to crime crew is wreaking havoc is unsettling, and my longing is to know that it will come to an end in my life time, and that my son will have the opportunities I had, prior to the globalized violations of all things that are holy and sacred. I confess, I want to see a heaping helping of justice served up to those that have done the devils bidding. 

Sleep evades, weeds persist, and hope is said to spring eternal. My hope is that my prayers are answered, and I can be a whole lot more like Habakkuk, and a lot less like an ingrate.