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God Gave Us Weeds
By Andrea Lizares Si
One afternoon of a particularly disappointing and exhausting week, I went on a rampage against the easiest targets, the weeds in my garden. It was good therapy, rooting out weeds as I would root out and rid myself of tiresome habits, wrong attitudes, helplessness and frustration that made it impossible for me to do productive and meaningful work. In the course of the slaughter, I fought with God and myself about the curse of being gifted and the merits of giving in to peaceful mediocrity.
Then, perhaps because I’d been talking in their presence for more than enough weed generations, a weed found its voice. “How can you be so stupid?” It said by way of introduction. It was a young weed, easily uprooted. I had intended to make it my next victim.
“You’re the one without a brain. You’re not even supposed to be talking” I was too angry to be surprised. "How dare you call me stupid!”
“I can sing as well,” the weed said as it began to hum. Its voice sounded of long ago summers in my father’s farm. “Why are you so angry?” it asked. “The sun is shining and you’re alive.”
“How can you be so happy? All the world hates weeds!”
“The same God who made humans made weeds. Have you ever asked yourself why?”
“I guess because there’s a weed somewhere that will provide the cure for cancer or some other dread disease,” I answered quickly.
“A reasonable answer but an intellectual one. Wisdom means being able to answer from your heart,” said the weed.
Unbelievable, a weed arguing with me. “The only real use I have for weeds is so I can have victims for my wrath.” I said, my impatience rising.
“How like a human to bully the weak. But that answer gets an ‘A’ for honesty" A weed trying to teach me. Unthinkable, and yet.. . . .
“Admit that you have much to learn even from the most simple and the most lowly. But why do you hesitate to acknowledge that? Because you think I’m just a dumb weed?”
Many other times, weeds had tested my patience and determination. To keep from giving up on the war against them, I’d become a philosopher of sorts, rationalizing that like garbage, laundry, dirty dishes, and dust, weeds are a reality of our human condition and our inability to succeed in an all out, once-for-all campaign against them do not mark us as failures.
I softened. “Something about weeds. You’re ugly, uneducated, unpopular, poor. People hate you. Anyone in your place will want to shrivel up and die. But look at you. Long after I’m gone, there will be weeds growing happily in this place.”
“Gives you room for thought, doesn’t it? Humans take everything for granted and give up too easily. A good weed will just keep growing back, trying again. And again. And again, ad infinitum.”
“You have no idea how much failure hurts,” I said. ”I get tired trying. Some things I’m not meant to win.”
“It’s been said, ‘Argue for your failures and sure enough they are yours,’ something like that. Do you realize that life isn’t at all about winning?”
What can a weed know about life? But am I better because of all the trophies gathering dust in my shelves, the moments of triumph that people no longer remember? The successes that matter at all are those that came after long, painful struggles. These were not about proving myself better or smarter than everyone else. What made those victories memorable is that I persisted, held on tenaciously to a dream, refused to let myself be disheartened by obstacles and setbacks. I think of what is most meaningful in my life now, our advocacy for women, our campaign against corruption and for good governance, our work for transformation in society and in the Church. There are times it feels we are never very far from square one. People seem not to listen or to care. Never ending struggles these. Maybe like garbage, laundry, dirty dishes, weeds in the garden.
This incident with the weed happened so many years ago, that I have forgotten if I pulled out my talkative little friend or if I gave it a reprieve. My daughter does the gardening these days. I also have maids to take care of all the house-cleaning that needs to be done. But difficult seasons make me think of weeds. In my mind, I may see myself relentlessly pulling them out, one problem after another, clearing patch after patch of what isn't going well, feeling revitalized and healed by the process. Or I may think of myself as the weed, trodden underfoot, yet impossible to keep down. Always growing back, never discouraged, stubborn in its determination to have its day in the sun, ever ready to try again. And again. And again. Ad infinitum.
I no longer complain about weeds or ask God why he made them. I just know that when I have had enough of trying, when I want to give up more than anything else in the world, I think of how weeds never give up. And I say resolutely to myself, "I will never never ever let a stupid weed beat me."
One afternoon of a particularly disappointing and exhausting week, I went on a rampage against the easiest targets, the weeds in my garden. It was good therapy, rooting out weeds as I would root out and rid myself of tiresome habits, wrong attitudes, helplessness and frustration that made it impossible for me to do productive and meaningful work. In the course of the slaughter, I fought with God and myself about the curse of being gifted and the merits of giving in to peaceful mediocrity.
Then, perhaps because I’d been talking in their presence for more than enough weed generations, a weed found its voice. “How can you be so stupid?” It said by way of introduction. It was a young weed, easily uprooted. I had intended to make it my next victim.
“You’re the one without a brain. You’re not even supposed to be talking” I was too angry to be surprised. "How dare you call me stupid!”
“I can sing as well,” the weed said as it began to hum. Its voice sounded of long ago summers in my father’s farm. “Why are you so angry?” it asked. “The sun is shining and you’re alive.”
“How can you be so happy? All the world hates weeds!”
“The same God who made humans made weeds. Have you ever asked yourself why?”
“I guess because there’s a weed somewhere that will provide the cure for cancer or some other dread disease,” I answered quickly.
“A reasonable answer but an intellectual one. Wisdom means being able to answer from your heart,” said the weed.
Unbelievable, a weed arguing with me. “The only real use I have for weeds is so I can have victims for my wrath.” I said, my impatience rising.
“How like a human to bully the weak. But that answer gets an ‘A’ for honesty" A weed trying to teach me. Unthinkable, and yet.. . . .
“Admit that you have much to learn even from the most simple and the most lowly. But why do you hesitate to acknowledge that? Because you think I’m just a dumb weed?”
Many other times, weeds had tested my patience and determination. To keep from giving up on the war against them, I’d become a philosopher of sorts, rationalizing that like garbage, laundry, dirty dishes, and dust, weeds are a reality of our human condition and our inability to succeed in an all out, once-for-all campaign against them do not mark us as failures.
I softened. “Something about weeds. You’re ugly, uneducated, unpopular, poor. People hate you. Anyone in your place will want to shrivel up and die. But look at you. Long after I’m gone, there will be weeds growing happily in this place.”
“Gives you room for thought, doesn’t it? Humans take everything for granted and give up too easily. A good weed will just keep growing back, trying again. And again. And again, ad infinitum.”
“You have no idea how much failure hurts,” I said. ”I get tired trying. Some things I’m not meant to win.”
“It’s been said, ‘Argue for your failures and sure enough they are yours,’ something like that. Do you realize that life isn’t at all about winning?”
What can a weed know about life? But am I better because of all the trophies gathering dust in my shelves, the moments of triumph that people no longer remember? The successes that matter at all are those that came after long, painful struggles. These were not about proving myself better or smarter than everyone else. What made those victories memorable is that I persisted, held on tenaciously to a dream, refused to let myself be disheartened by obstacles and setbacks. I think of what is most meaningful in my life now, our advocacy for women, our campaign against corruption and for good governance, our work for transformation in society and in the Church. There are times it feels we are never very far from square one. People seem not to listen or to care. Never ending struggles these. Maybe like garbage, laundry, dirty dishes, weeds in the garden.
This incident with the weed happened so many years ago, that I have forgotten if I pulled out my talkative little friend or if I gave it a reprieve. My daughter does the gardening these days. I also have maids to take care of all the house-cleaning that needs to be done. But difficult seasons make me think of weeds. In my mind, I may see myself relentlessly pulling them out, one problem after another, clearing patch after patch of what isn't going well, feeling revitalized and healed by the process. Or I may think of myself as the weed, trodden underfoot, yet impossible to keep down. Always growing back, never discouraged, stubborn in its determination to have its day in the sun, ever ready to try again. And again. And again. Ad infinitum.
I no longer complain about weeds or ask God why he made them. I just know that when I have had enough of trying, when I want to give up more than anything else in the world, I think of how weeds never give up. And I say resolutely to myself, "I will never never ever let a stupid weed beat me."
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