When Weeds Grow in the Garden

At first, I thought the new garden was safe simply because it was new.

I learned how to plant better things, healthier rhythms, clearer boundaries, gentler ways of living. I assumed that meant the old harm couldn’t follow me here.

But weeds don’t always arrive loudly.

Some return quietly, dressed as familiarity. Some look almost identical to what once brought comfort. Some grow close enough to the good that pulling them too quickly would risk tearing everything out.

Letting certain family members back in felt right at first. I told myself it was grace. I told myself it was forgiveness. I told myself this was what healing was supposed to look like.

But over time, something became clear.

The boundaries I had worked hard to grow weren’t being honored. They were being questioned, negotiated, and slowly eroded through guilt. Each time I bent, the same patterns resurfaced. The harm didn’t change. Only my willingness to tolerate it did.

My absence hadn’t changed anything except where the weight landed. I was still the one “causing turmoil.” Still the one “stirring things up.” Still the problem, simply for refusing to return to what hurt.

For a long time, I didn’t pull anything at all.

I mistook patience for endurance. I mistook love for silence. I told myself I was being wise by waiting.

Part of that came from a story I grew up hearing, one that lodged itself deep inside me.

My mother used to tell a story about a tricycle. When she and her brothers were children, they would leave it just outside the back door. Their father would trip over it, curse, and threaten to put it in a tree if they didn’t remember to move it.

Being kinds, they forgot one too many times.

One day, he followed through.

He put the tricycle in a tree and over time, the tree grew around it. Years later, when we visited my grandmother, that tricycle was still there, embedded in the trunk.

That story stayed with me.

There was no grace in it. No learning curve. No room for small mistakes.

It was a cold reminder of what happens when you don’t “mind.” A lesson rooted in fear, permanence and punishment.

That story should have stayed in my mother’s childhood, but it quietly shaped mine.

It surfaced in my own children’s lives.

I had let my two older boys say with their grandma for a few hours because I believed they were missing out on a connection. Just because she and I didn’t agree didn’t mean they should lose out entirely.

When I arrived to pick them up, my mother asked the boys to tell me about their time there.

They talked about snacks. Playing outside. And then-proudly-they shared the task they had helped with.

The neighbor boy had been leaving toys on the sidewalk. She had warned him not to. He forgot one too many times.

So she had my boys take the toys to the dumpster.

They told the story with excitement. They had helped. They had followed directions. They had done the “right” thing.

When they finished, I asked quietly, “Did you throw away the toys?”

They nodded, pleased with themselves.

And instantly, I remembered the tricycle in the tree.

In that moment, I saw it clearly:

this wasn’t just a story anymore. It was a pattern trying to plant itself in my children.

I punished my boys by making them retrieve every single toy from that dumpster.

Then I asked them questions.

How many times have you forgotten to pick up a toy? How many times did you lose it forever?

Even though they were young, they began to understand how cold that act really was.

My mother lived in rent-controlled apartments at the time. The neighbors were on tight budgets. Throwing away toys might have seemed small-but maybe those toys were all that child had. Maybe they came from an absent parent. Maybe they were replaceable… or maybe they weren’t.

And the sidewalk wasn’t narrow. There was plenty of room to get around.

But my mother had copied the parenting she knew, and without meaning to, my boys had stepped right into it.

That moment didn’t mean everything ended.

But it did mean something changed.

I stopped allowing my boys to be around her unsupervised.

Her father had ruled with an iron fist, demanding things be done exactly as he said, without softness or room to learn. My childhood carried much of that same weight. And now, watching the example being set for my children, it felt painfully familiar.

Too familiar to ignore.

So I adjusted access, not out of spite, not out of punishment. But out of protection.

I was still navigating family ties. Still learning how to balance compassion with truth. But i knew this much:

I would not hand my children the same lessons I was still trying to unlearn.

And slowly I started to learn something else too:

Some weeds really do look like wheat at first. They aren’t obvious. They grow close to what is good. And pulling too early-before roots are strong-can cost more than we expect.

So I waited. And I watched fruit.

Over time, it became impossible to ignore what kept producing harm no matter how gently I tended it. What asked for access without honoring growth. What demanded closeness while resisting accountability.

Just because you share blood does not mean you share the same values. It does not mean you share the same truth. And it does not mean God is asking you to sacrifice wisdom to prove love.

Choosing God meant choosing discernment. Choosing timing. Choosing to tend the garden carefully-not reactively, not harshly, but honestly.

Not everything that looks familiar belongs. And not everything harmful should be pulled before the roots are strong enough to survive it.

📖Scripture Reading

Matthew 13:24-30 (ASV)

24. He set another parable before them, saying, The kingdom of heaven is likened unto a man that sowed good seed in his field: 25. but while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares also among the wheat and went away. 26. But when the blade sprang up and brought forth fruit, then appeared the tares also. 27. And the servants of the householder came and said unto him, Sir, didst thou not sow good seed in thy field? Whence then hath it tares? 28. And he said unto them, An enemy hath done this. And the servants say unto him, Wilt thou then that we go and gather them up? 29. But he saith, Nay; lest haply while ye gather up the tares, ye root up the wheat with them. 30. Let both grow together until the harvest…

Scripture Summary

In this parable, Jesus teaches that not all harm is immediately obvious. Some weeds look like wheat while everything is still growing. They emerge in the same soil, under the same sun, often indistinguishable at first glance.

When the servants notice the weeds, their instinct is to act quickly, to remove what doesn’t belong. But the landowner stops them. Not because the weeds are acceptable, but because the roots are tangled. Pulling too soon would damage the wheat that is still deveoping.

This is not a lesson in ignoring harm. It is a lesson in discernment and timing.

Jesus acknowledges that what was planted was good-but interference came later. And wisdom is required to know when action will heal and when it will harm. Growth must be protected while its still tender.

The parable reminds us that God sees what we cannot yet see clearly. He understands how deeply roots intertwine, how generational patterns repeat, and how premature action, no matter how well-intended, can cost more than waiting.

Waiting is not weakness here. It is stewardship.

And when the timing is right, the difference between wheat and weeds becomes unmistakable-not by force, but by fruit.

Why This Matters

This matters because discernment is often learned the hard way. When the cost of waiting becomes visible, and the cost of acting too soon becomes even clearer.

In my life, this season revealed that not every pattern announces itself immediately. Some come wrapped in familiarity. Some grow alongside what is good. And some take time before their fruit tells the truth.

As a parent, this lesson became even more urgent. I wasn’t just tending my own heart anymore. I was protecting the roots of my children. I had to learn that wisdom sometimes looks like waiting, watching, and adjusting access rather than reacting with force or fear.

God wasn’t asking me to ignore harm. He was teaching me how to respond without destroying what was still growing.

This matters because many of us feel pressured to act quickly, either to cut everything off or to tolerate everything indefinitely. But Scripture offers a third way: thoughtful stewardship. Love guided by wisdom. Action guided by timing.

Choosing discernment allowed me to break patterns without repeating them. It gave me space to parent differently, to love more intentionally, and to trust that God sees what I cannot yet fully untangle.

Sometimes faith doesn’t ask us to pull weeds immediately. Sometimes it asks us to protect the wheat until its strong enough to stand.

Reflection

• Where in your life have weeds looked like wheat-familiar, close, or hard to distinguish at first?

• Have you ever acted too quickly in an effort to “fix” something, only to realize later what it cost?

• Where might God be inviting you to wait and watch fruit rather than react immediately?

• Are there patterns-personal or generational-you are becoming aware of but still learning how to address wisely?

• What or who are you stewarding right now that feels tender and still growing?

• How does it feel to consider waiting can be an act of faith, not avoidance?

Rooted Reminder

Some weeds look like wheat. Wisdom isn’t always pulling immediately-its knowing when the roots are strong enough to withstand it. God sees what is growing beneath the surface, and He tends with care.

Waiting can be faith. Watching fruit can be productive. And timing is part of love.

Closing Prayer

Father,

You see the while field, what is growing, what is tangled, and what is still becoming. Give me discernment to know when to wait and when to act. Help me protect what You are growing without responding from fear or old patterns.

Teach me to trust Your timing, especially when the roots are not yet visible. Guard my heart and the hearts entrusted to me. And give me courage to tend this garden with wisdom, patience, and love.

In Jesus’ name,

Amen