Sabbath Weeds

There is a blessed slow turning, turning from the failures of failures upon failures. There is by no means a complete turn. The flesh continues to sting in the light. Darkness is still preferred over light. But there is a slow turning from the darkness, a growing enjoyment of the light.
Again we the poster family of the suffering have been set upon the display window for all to see. This time the lesser member, the toes, crying out. And so we enter this trial of depending again. It would seem by now we would be so mature in our faith that these things would not suspend us, set us back under.
But the flesh, like weeds, if not pruned and cut daily, slowly grows back, choking all the garden we think we were. Moment by moment I must pull and pluck and pry the growth of vines and entanglements.
This morning of the night of Monday is eighteen minutes in and I am crying out already. Lord, help my unbelief! The weeds of the flesh are so persistent in growing in this beautiful, well manicured and groomed garden of the spirit.