You gave me a picture of a farmer working a garden. I am the farmer and as I gaze out, all I see are the weeds. As much as I want to grasp my tools and labor towards extracting every single invasive weed from the ground, You are much more gentle than that. I am prone to self-condemation and perfection - You see even the weeds as integral to your craftsmanship. It is not the season of harvest, and I struggle to stay present in the suffering. Are you here, Lord? Stay awhile.
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