The year he turned eighteen was the year the world
ground to a halt because of the virus named Corona.
The world ending seemed to be a reflection of his
failure, of how his life would turn out.
He was angry at God. To him, nothing went according
to plan in his life, and that only weeds were growing
in his soul and choking out his joy. A sign that God
didn’t care for him and would never care.
In August he went for a hike, fleeing for the mountains.
(Or was he fleeing from God?) Mountains which stood
as a reminder of his childhood when everything was new
and not mangled. He was happy for the first time
in years on top of that mountain. If he returned home he
would return to sadness, depression, and feelings of failure.
He stood at the edge, knowing one step is all it would take
and he’d never feel again.
But a hand stopped him.
God was there, just like he had been that entire time.
And God spoke to him, telling him to keep going because he
didn’t know what the future held for him.
For the first time he listened to God, and in his soul
the first small flower bloomed through all those weeds.
Five years ago, that eighteen year old was me. I was the
one who had weeds in his soul, who was running from God.
But now those weeds in my soul are gone and they’ve been
replaced by flowers. God always was by me, and I’m no longer
a weed in this world, but a flower.