Prayer from the Parable of the Wheat and Tares

Lord, every Christmas dinner I have wanted to pull up the weeds. I look around the table and start sorting who belongs and who is faking, and before the salad I am playing judge from my chair. Then I remember Your word from Matthew 13 — let both grow together until the harvest. That is Your call, not mine. I am not the one to swing the harvest blade. I can barely tell the wheat from the weeds in my own life, and the field beyond me is past my reach. Teach me to be patient with the church. Teach me to be patient with my brother. Teach me to be patient with myself, where good and bad still grow tangled together. Leave the judging to the angels who can tell the difference. Free me to love the field as it is today and trust You with the sorting. Make me wheat, slowly, where I can be made wheat. Christ Jesus, You are a better farmer than I am an inspector. Amen.