God lives in petals—
in the hush between blooming and belief,
in the soft places where light bends through leaf-stitched windows
and morning dew sounds like prayer.
Faith is a flowerbed—
not always bright, but rooted.
I have known the weeds.
They wear the same colors as lilies,
reach toward the sun like praise.
They pretend they belong.
And sometimes—I believe them.
Some sins don’t hiss; they hum,
soft and sweet and near enough
to be mistaken for comfort.
They grow in me
in patterns I forget to question,
curling around old griefs and newer wants
until I can’t see the soil.
God never yells over the weeds.
He waits.
He tugs gently at the corners of my conscience,
nudges the rot with rain,
asks me, “What still takes more of you than I do?”
And I have to answer.
I pull pride up by the root,
mud-stained and shaking.
Pull envy next—shiny-leaved,
but choking the truth from my stems.
Bitterness, a vine that whispers
all the wrong names for love.
Doubt, wild and flowering,
but only in the dark.
It hurts—this uprooting.
But a garden doesn’t grow by accident.
I plant silence, instead—
a prayerful kind.
Plant gentleness, even when I am thorned.
Patience, though its seeds are slow.
Hope, again and again.
And there, among the ache and ash,
God makes His home.
He walks between the rows
not to inspect, but to stay.
To teach me that faith is not flawless—
just tended.
That some beauty costs less than it’s worth,
and some weeds
will always look like flowers
until you learn the difference.
Author’s Note:
This poem was inspired by a metaphor my pastor shared at church camp—about the things in our lives being like flowers, and the importance of recognizing which are actually weeds pulling us away from God. It reflects my personal journey of faith (even as a queer teenager) as a careful process of tending, uprooting, and growing. Writing it helped me explore how faith isn’t about perfection, but about patience and persistence.
Ollie Coleman | 15 | Hebron, KY | @writenbyollie on TikTok & @ollie.always.here on Instagram
