Shara Bueler-Repka is enjoying life as a singer/songwriter/recording artist, freelance writer, and award-winning author. She and her husband, Bruce, live in their living quarters horse trailer and call “home” wherever their rig is parked. Their mail-base, however, is Hallettsville, Texas. She loves sharing God’s Word through music with her husband, riding their horses (aka The Boys) in the backcountry, and writing about God’s grace in their various adventures on the trail less traveled. Join the fun and be encouraged on their website: www.ponyexpressministry. com, her blog: https://lifeonthetraillesstraveled.wordpress. com/, or come for a visit on Facebook or Faith Social.
The Thing About Weeds by by Shara Bueler-Repka
Show me Your ways, O LORD; Teach me Your paths. Lead me in Your truth and teach me, For You are the God of my salvation; On You I wait all the day. (Psalm 25:4-5 NKJV) When I was a kid, one of my jobs was pulling weeds. And, boy, did we have a lot of them! I think every species of weed God ever created lived on our place. Some of them pulled up quite easily. (I liked those kinds.) Others just needed a little tug. But there were those that rose triumphantly out of their hard soil, defiantly challenging me to give it my best shot. Mustard weeds. They hated me as much as I hated them— their pretty little yellow flowers belying what they truly were! These kept me from what I really wanted to do—ride my horse, swim in the pool, play in the stream—the good life! So, I set about devising ways to quickly unearth them from their resistant soil. My first introduction to this ominous task was a comical one indeed. I grabbed ahold of the top of the weed and heaved with everything I had, putting my whole-body weight into it (which wasn’t much at eight years old). Suddenly the little flowers, stems, and all gave way and rifted through my fingers like a slick rope, sending me sprawling on my backside. Flopped on my fanny in the dirt, I opened my hand. Yellow petal remnants and green stems were all I had to show for my labor.
60
|
M AG A Z I N E N A M E
Undaunted, I figured I’d get a little smarter. I know what I’ll do. I’ll grab a little closer to the root! The process repeated itself, only with more grunting and growling. This particular process, however, yielded less “fruit” than the previous one—the stems and flowers didn’t even come off. Desperate now, I chose the next trick up my sleeve (albeit a devious one). I’ll just whack off the top of that thing with a hoe—close enough to the ground so you can barely see it. (OK, well, then kick dirt over the top to really cover it.) I figured, however, there could be another type of pain in my backside if I didn’t cease and desist this practice. (Yeah, my dad’s pretty smart!) Stumped and annoyed, I stormed to my dad and whined, “Those stupid weeds can NOT be pulled out!” My dad probably chuckled inside, but he never let it show. He knew exactly how to get rid of them. In fact, the solution was so simple, it took no time at all. The solution? Water. We soaked the ground around the root and, little by little, the water saturated the dirt. I then gripped the weed by the base and pulled it up and out with relative ease.
PAGE 60
