Having thrown the symbolic first weed, I feel a twinge of victorious pride course through my being. I have begun, and it is glorious. I would love to stop and celebrate, to eat a picnic lunch here on the suddenly clearer threshold of the garden, but I know that would only push me farther from my goal. It would be setting off, yet again, on those other paths, setting myself as ruler as I have done so often. This task that sits before me may not be the most glorious today, but I know that it is worthy and meaningful, and the beauty that has been created here will outlast any nations I try and establish elsewhere. This garden is not of my creation, but I have been charged with its care, and I have begun my task to care for this beautiful place. I will not abandon it, despite temptation lurking at the gate.
I stand, surveying the garden once more. I reach down for the tool that I have brought this day. It is not the gardener’s first and favorite tool, but for this task it is my necessary friend as I begin. Before I can tend to the delicate beauty within I must weedeat in the garden, for as the Lord terrifies in his fury, as the Lord speaks in his wrath, I, too, must be an agent of destruction to those looming weeds lurking in every corner of the garden. My paths are overgrown, and my feet would trample more weeds than dirt were I to trudge anywhere in the garden, so weedeat I must.
I set it gingerly on the ground, aware of the power within as its weight is already straining my arms. My foot rests gingerly near the top as the head strains at the waiting weeds. I reach down, grasp the cord in my suddenly resolute grip and pull once, twice and a third time, when it roars to life, then settling into a steady hum as I adjust the choke. The sudden sound seems defeaning in the once-peaceful garden, and I smile smugly at the invading weeds as I heft the weedeater’s strap over my shoulder and stand erect. My finger toys with the trigger as I remember: ‘You shall break them with a rod of iron, and dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel.’
With that I depress the trigger and swing the head into the nearest dandelion. The once limp string comes to life in a high pitched whine, and what was once harmless twine is now an instrument of destruction, cutting a swath of opponents down by the neck as it pendulums across the face of the fence. Some maniacal laugh erupts as I watch the weeds fall helpless before this power. It is not my own power, but I have been equipped with the perfect tool to begin my task, and my opponents perish before me.
I slowly move down the fenceline, unobstructed by any plants of value here, far away from my roses. These are the remnants of years of laziness, of misuse and abandon. Sunday mornings spent in bed and dust on the Bible fades with every vine reaching for the sun. I can feel the foul language and lack of integrity protesting the whine of my work, but they are no match for what I yield. No longer will my garden be a slave to these sins of the past; they fall before this modern scythe and I can almost feel the extra light reaching my soul. I know that the tangle around the roses still exists, but somehow the petals seem to open a little wider with every falling weed.
I spend an hour passing this shrill fury along the base of the fence. When I once again reach my gate I release the trigger and set down the weedeater, silencing its steady hum with a flip of a switch. Sudden calm reigns again, yet it is different than before. It does not include the anxiety about the task beforehand, but rather dwells in simple peace, with some sense of satisfaction about the task that is now behind.
It was not my hand that completed this harvest, but it my strongest desire and greatest pleasure to watch these helpless victims fall at my feet. Much work remains, but I am happy, because I have begun the work, and because it is a joyous task despite the sweat the has soaked through my shirt. My legs are covered with remains of the task, but for this soul, on this day, they serve as reminders of what once littered my garden and now defaces it no more. My refuge, my garden, is now one step cleaner.
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