Weather at the window. There is no lock clicking into place so safe as this. Rain, wind, snow, it doesn’t matter. This pane stands clear and as divisible as the word. Family. I am inside. That storm, rage and all, is out. I lay quiet and warm while rain, cold with ice intentions, hits against this place. I am safe. Inside.
Family locks the door from the inside. No matter who is inside. Sometimes the safe is not. But the snow falls and the family moves about indoors, forgetting. That’s the privilege, the right and the code. That can make all things right. Even the wrong.
Straining out the days, I wonder which words and actions will harm? What are the times where I tread too far that mean loss of trust or lack of love for my children? Which days have been much safe from the storm but with danger woven into the hearth? Is there anything to be done?
Redemption songs are all I ever have. Jesus tells that the weeds grow up with the wheat. Bad and good grow together. At the right time there will be a harvest and a separation. We want the separation now. We are like the servants who ask, “Master, who has done this!” As if there are no weeds on the inside of our locked doors.
Even when whittled down to only me and only you, there’s still me and there’s still you. All of the sins out there find a warm nesting spot in my heart, in yours. Jesus, no. Let’s get out there and rip out the weeds, at least in this neighborhood, in this city, in this small town – at least within these four walls.
I’ve seen behind closed doors, weeds growing up among the wheat. I’ve felt them reach for me in the night while the rain beat down on the window, safe inside. There was no place more dangerous. It isn’t any good, Lord. There must be a better way then the end harvest. There is a separating that could keep them over there and us here. Safe and on the inside.
It takes a while, but I catch Him. He’s out to where His words find good soil. I thought He was still with me, but no, He’d been gone. When I see Him, I cry out and my Lord turns to me. His eye is clear and His hand is sure.
“Weeds with the wheat. Weeds with the wheat. Weeds with the wheat.”
So I kiss my son with lips fresh from prayers and say, “Goodbye.” He runs off to love those I’ll never even meet. I look beyond my friends, beyond my church, beyond the safe zones where I imagine no harm draws near. The dryer rumbles and the heat kicks on. I wipe the counter clean and I watch winter blow up to it’s boundary, this pane of glass installed by men. This lie is curious. The safety of family is true and it’s not true. I am on the inside. I am wheat. I am weeds. Only His heart is the impenetrable place where no weeds grow. His heart is for me. It’s for you.