“In Texas everything sticks you, pricks you or bites you.” The farmer telling me this wasn’t smiling. Neither was my dog who sat at my feet licking his paw, earnestly trying to dislodge a grass burr from between his toes.  
            My region of Texas—the Panhandle—is quite arid compared to the lush farmland of western Ohio where I was raised. Briscoe Country, Texas receives an average of 12 inches  of rain a year. Mercer County, Ohio receives forty-four inches. In Ohio, we raise four steers on one acre, in the Panhandle fifteen acres are required for just one.
           Back home, milkweed floats in the air like white confetti and sunny dandelions greet you on the way to a nearby creek to catch bluegill. In the Panhandle, the closest river will be nothing but a long strip of sand with clumps of prickly pear cactus on its banks. Along the road, mesquite trees flex their thorn-laden branches. Their cohorts, the ever-present and prickly tumble weed—also known as Russian thistle—roll across the ground like giant whiskey barrels looking for a fence to knock down.
           Unfortunately, the list goes on. The parched ground also hosts other nettlesome species: puncture vine, buffalo burrs, goat-head burrs and the poisonous Texas nightshade.   
           Is there a redemptive value to these manifestations of herbivorous evil? Well, if one prays the Liturgy of the Hours as I do, these barbed plants and stark surroundings mirror numerous biblical verses that speak of “parched land, dry and without water” (Psalm 63), blighted landscapes “covered with nettles” (Proverbs 24) and “fires rage among thorns” (Proverbs 24).
           Yet, to be fair, not all Texas herbage is inherently defensive. Each morning, for instance, as I recite the Benedictus, sipping coffee and gazing out the window at my pasture, my soul is soothed at the sight of  blue stem grass bowing its head in a gentle breeze, rendering reverence to our Creator. Later in the day, I’ll stroll down my lane pass a grove of soapberry trees covered with snowy blossoms in the spring. In the fall, bunches of tickle grass will nod their heads like good friends who are always happy to see you. In mid-summer, a tall green wall of Johnson grass will guard the western edge of the feed lot.
            All in all, the verse that most effectively captures the hope and promise of God’s providence is this: “He turns deserts into pools of water and the arid land into springs” (Psalm 107:35).
            Here in Texas we learn how to spot signs of grace and reasons for hope. Can Ohioans say the same about crabgrass?