Competitive Lawn Care

1. I might as well be crocheting potholders as writing this blog. The similarities are strong. I have experience crocheting and writing. As a Cub Scout, the widowed mother of a friend of mine didn’t know what else to do with a bunch of rowdy boys, so she taught us how to make potholders instead of the art of catching frogs.
   
   As a bored, sometimes frustrated, newspaper sales manager needing relief and adventure, I wrote hundreds of 700-word articles published in a chain of newspapers. Later, as an under worked pastor, I extended the church’s pulpit by writing a religious column for a local newspaper.
   
   In both endeavors, the practical value of my effort was minimal. The potholder quickly unraveled in my mother’s hand and the newspaper clippings are now brittle and yellow. So much for creating enduring values.
   
   On the other hand, both the crocheting and writing occupied my hands and mind for hours I might have spent in doing mischief. Who can imagine how many people I could have disappointed, enraged, and frustrated if I hadn’t crocheted chains and written paragraphs?
   
   When a crotchetier finishes one project, she starts planning the next one. When a writer puts the last period in the last paragraph, he begins wondering what he will write about next. And the next step in crocheting and writing gets harder as one gets older.
   
   Arthritis, rheumatism, and failing eyesight have a cooling effect on one’s zeal for yet another potholder, doily, or scarf. In a similar way, writing by an old man separated from the marketplace and with a shrinking circle of friends, writing about the day’s activities of an old man doesn’t inspire an avid readership.
   
   However, maturity does have one valuable benefit. It doesn’t matter if the teacher doesn’t like the way you learn crocheting. And when the writer and editor are the same person, grammar, syntax, and clarity are non-issues.
   
   So – like Seinfeld, this blog is about nothing. One of the nothings I did recently was mow the lawn.
   
   Mowing the lawn in my neighborhood is a competitive sport. Although the rules have never been published, I think I have most of them figured out. The rules about equipment are few. There are no restrictions on size or brand of motors. That no one uses electric or old-fashioned, hand-powered machines may be simply a matter of choice rather than a prohibition. Because the game focuses on the finished product, the mown lawn, issues of noise and air pollution are ignored. Size and horsepower seem to not matter and the quantity of polluting contaminants is certainly ignored.
   
   Although the number of “pusher” mowers out number the “riders” in my neighborhood,
   I have chosen a 15-horsepower John Deere lawn tractor with cruise control as my machine. I like that it cuts a wide swath even though it gives me little advantage in the game of lawn mowing since mowing time neither adds or subtracts points. Because winners are chosen on Sundays, actual mowing time is irrelevant as long as mowers are resting in the garage by sundown Saturday evening. .
   
   To learn what it takes to win the game, I have paid close attention to the perennial winners. Recognizing that there might be hidden secrets that explain their consistency in winning, I have made a list of obvious components that can make me a contender.

• My lawn should be seeded with Kentucky Bluegrass and trimmed to a height between 2.5- and three-inches.
  
• Have no dandelions, chickweed, or crabgrass – nothing but Kentucky Bluegrass.
  
• Neatly trimmed borders and edges.
  
• A uniformly green lawn.
  
• A landscape plan that has drive-by appeal.
  
  With those goals before me, I have begun to accumulate the needed equipment:
  

1. A 15-horsepower John Deere riding mower with cruise control.
2. An electric edger with a steel blade that is difficult to find and install.
3. A string trimmer that has a spool that routinely jams.
4. A sprayer to poison unsightly grass in the sidewalk and driveway.
5. No less than 100 feet of garden hose and an attractive storage place.
6. Sprinklers for lawn watering.
7. Hand held pruning shears.
8. A leaf blower to rid the sidewalk, driveway, and mower of cut grass and dust.
9. A rake.
10. A set of small garden tools for planting flowers and digging up weeds.
    
    If I only knew what the prize is for winning, I might get excited about competing. Or, maybe not.

Loneliness

Carrol and I spent the weekend with some of my high school friends from the Class of ’55. At our table for Friday’s dinner were two widower’s, one recent and one for more than five years. Also at the table were a Vietnam vet living on borrowed time because of agent orange and his wife. Of the four marriages, ours was the only one that had enjoyed a fiftieth anniversary.

Four months ago, Bob’s wife of 47 years died. The first four months, he said, were easy compared to the present. He told us they had known how she would die years earlier and planned accordingly. But when eventuality became reality, when dreaded expectations turned into dark certainty, when the horizon of the future crept close and became the present, Ruthie was dead and Bob was awash in an uncomfortable, embarrassing state of relief.

Since then, relief has lost its temporary value. In its place, a heavy loneliness has settled in. Aware that there is no realistic alternative, Bob knows his grief is now a meaner enemy. He and his wife had no children, his sister lives in West Virginia, and of course his parents are gone. At one time he had eleven dogs, but all but one have gone to doggie heaven. He says, “I can’t imagine marrying again.” With that possibility ruled out, Bob’s future lacks the marks of an eagerly anticipated vacation or holiday. As Bob rambled from subject to subject, a question formed in my head. Is Bob now saddled with perpetual loneliness or is there some relief possible?

The other widower, Albert, told us he lost his wife, “5 years, 5 months, and 18 days ago.” After a slight pause, Albert continued, “The first seven months were hardest.” More silence. It was clear that Al didn’t want to wade through the swamp of his grief again. All he wanted to say was that loneliness was his worst enemy.

At dinner the next evening, we sat with six different classmates, including Lynn who had buried her husband a year ago. As the rest of us inquired about her health and adjustment, she repeated what we had heard the night before. Apparently, time brings some peace and acceptance, but mostly it brings the demon of loneliness.

For years I have listened to widows and widowers tell me about grief, the lonely nights, the claustrophobia of a big house, the sadness of an empty chair at the breakfast table, the feeling of being a fifth-wheel among married couples. In those days, listening was part of my job description.

This past weekend, it was not my job; it was unavoidable. Today, four days after the weekend I am remembering a long-ago Beatles song, Eleanor Rigby and its message “Ah, look at all the lonely people … where do they all come from?”

One place lonely people come from is marriage or more precisely, the end of a marriage. My wife and I, by a joint effort, have avoided divorce that would have left me lonely. Yet, there is an end of marriage that we cannot avoid – the death of one of us.

When a spouse dies, the wedding vow “’til death do us part” is fulfilled. Completed. Finished. Gone. In my marriage, like Bob’s, Al’s, and Lynn’s, one will be left. That one, the one left, will certainly be lonely.

In such a harsh light, the message comes clear. Two questions must be asked. Two actions are demanded. What kind of defense am I building now, while I have a spouse, to keep the demon of loneliness at bay if I am the one left? If I am the one left, what kind of plan have I made to eliminate the poisonous seeds of loneliness in the soil of my soul?

Regardless of the plan, I always have to return to reality. I know neither my nor I can avoid or escape loneliness that comes with death of the other. Even though death brings one kind of loneliness, death also brings another reality – the assurance of Jesus. “I am with you always, until the end of the age.” That promise protects us from the kind of loneliness that yearns for an understanding and compassionate God.

Why do they do it?

Why in the world does anyone spend time helping the others, especially the helpless, the lazy, bums, drunks, addicts, convicts, ex-cons, the dirty, the homeless, i.e., the bottom rung of society’s ladder? Why do grown-ups volunteer to serve children and youth? Why do seniors receive so much attention from their juniors?

I know a couple who exchanged a secure job with the government to be present with street people, serve them coffee, give them second-hand clothes, and offer a model of parenthood to kids who have multiple distorted views of parenting in their lives.

I wonder why they do that? Is it for money?

I know a guy who works the night shift and then drives 50 miles to teach and counsel prisoners. He works this other “job” two, sometimes three days a week and spends no less than two hours plus the two-hour driving time each day.

Why? Is it because he is bored and needs something to fill empty hours? Does he do it for the small deduction for charitable travel on his tax return?

I know a couple who show up every week at a city mission to pour coffee for folks who have never tasted Starbucks coffee. The couple would be comfortable in a stylish shop in the suburbs that offer Wi-Fi, but choose to serve coffee to people who are as unfamiliar with Wi-Fi as they are with a hundred-dollar bill. (Wireless-Fidelity enables laptop computer users to get on the Internet in coffee shops, bookstores, etc..)

Why? Are they doing some kind of penance for a sin God has already forgotten?

I know others who prepare and serve a meal to anyone who comes to St. John’s Breadline and they do this cooking and serving regularly.

Why? Are they learning how to cook and need someone to eat their nouveau cuisine?

After school tutors, Sunday school teachers, blood donors, people who serve as “big brothers” or “big sisters,” and the people who deliver meals to shut-ins all volunteer their services and spend their time doing something good for others.

Why? Why do all these volunteers do what they do?

When asked, some of these good people can’t answer the question about their motives. Most of them know a few reasons that do not motivate them. Money is the most often rejected explanation. Others say they only know in part what motivates them to volunteer. Among those partial answers are:

“I think I ought to pass along the blessings I have received.”

“There was a need and I could meet it.”

“I guess it is more or less a habit.”

“I like kids (or whoever benefits from their efforts).”

“In a way, although it seems selfish, I volunteer because I always get more than I give.”

Only a few mention any divinely inspired motivation. Are they embarrassed to talk about God or do they mostly look inside themselves to find the answer to the “Why?” questions.

After some listening, observing, and thinking I have come to the conclusion that self-referred answers bring some sadness to the good deeds when acknowledged. Wouldn’t service be more satisfying; more compelling; and more effective if the services of volunteers arose from a belief that God was the motivator? If God were so busy ruling the universe that he assigned certain jobs to ordinary John and Jane Does, wouldn’t the Does see their volunteering with more understanding and appreciative eyes?

To say, “God trusts me with a part of his responsibility for this child …” or “God thinks I am just the right person to do this …” or “Out of all the people in the world, God chose to motivate me to …” would undoubtedly make the value of a volunteer’s efforts more significant and meaningful.

So it seems to me. How does it seem to you?

Do you know what motivates you to serve? Or not to serve?

Whew! What a Holy Week

I almost missed the Maundy Thursday service. Leaving the comfort of home and returning after dark doesn’t have much appeal anymore. Attending the Good Friday service was even less attractive since the cold front that has jeopardized the spring flowers is not blowing through, but making itself at home on the prairie. Even though the temptation was real, we overcame and, as usual, we were glad we went. Habit is a powerful force – keeps some people from worship and draws others.

I have learned to expect at least one “take home” truth from every worship experience. I never know where the jewel I seek will be found because it is sometimes in the music, the words of a song, some action or thing that captures my eye, but most often the “take home” benefit comes from the preacher’s mouth.

That was the case on Maundy Thursday. The preacher’s thesis was that, unlike every other Christian worship service, Maundy Thursday is for insiders only.

She helped us remember the events on another Thursday that gave us the Last Supper. On that evening Jesus was having a meal with his closest friends whom he had trained to carry on the tasks he had been assigned. No one else was invited, no disinterested onlookers, no adversaries, no one needing healing, no one who wanted to argue.

The invitation to supper read “Insiders Only.” Insiders, even though the group included a betrayer and friends who were so fickle they would desert Jesus when he could have used a little support and encouragement. Like members of other insider groups, the disciples often expected special advantages and choice seats. They sometimes became jealous when outsiders received the attention they wanted and complained when more understanding and courage were expected of insiders. Yet, Jesus wanted to eat his last meal with his insiders. At the most intimate moment of his life, he wanted to spend it with insiders.

I took home from the Maundy Thursday worship a renewed acknowledgement that I am an insider. But when I ask, "What kind of insider am I?" I have to admit some changes are called for and some adjustments are necessary to improve my relationships, both horizontal and vertical.

Then Good Friday came and I went back to church to worship in a most unlikely context. Early in the service, the preacher read a meditation noting that Good Friday is the one holiday that Hallmark ignores. Who wants to be reminded of injustice, suffering, punishment, shame, and hatred? What is the “take home” message in the hearing of Jesus suffering and death?

Although the non-commercialization of a holiday is refreshing, Good Friday 2007 yanks me out of the fantasy world I want; a world where people are nice, love is the only motivator, and the good guys always win. Who can find a way to make a buck reminding customers that they killed the only perfect man who ever lived? Who would dare celebrate?

So for me, the truth of Good Friday is like a baseball thrown at a guy sitting on a seat above a tank of water in a carnival booth. The man sits there, waiting for some kid with a good arm to hit the trigger that dumps him in the cold water.

Good Friday is that kind of shock – sudden, surprising yet certain, and as real as the cold water.

Life is not what it ought to be or could be or what we want to be. Life has a dark side. In the greatest story ever told, the good suffer; the innocent are oppressed, the powerful acquiesce to wrongdoing, the righteous are neglected, and trusted servants enrich themselves from the common purse. Good Friday spotlights unpleasant truths and begs for a redemptive act. .

Insiders know from whence our redemption comes and they look forward!

Sometimes I Need a Cathedral Experience

The Christian church calendar, a calendar that reminds us of the significant events in the history of the faith. By setting aside a particular day and season, we lift up truths that are true all the time. Although we understand everyday that God visited his creation as a human being, the church calendar sets aside a Christmas season to drive the point home.

In the same way, forty days not counting Sundays are designated as Lent so we can prepare for the events leading up to Christ’s crucifixion and be ready for his triumphal and life extending resurrection.

I am glad we have Christmas and Easter on the calendar. On those days I am reminded that because of the events they commemorate these Holy days are not just like all the other days. They are special. They awaken convictions that have cooled. They force a new look at truths taken for granted. They give root to what has become a cut-flower existence. They reset me in starting blocks so I can run the race again, better motivated, stronger, and more determined to finish the race.

I need holidays!

In a similar way, I need a cathedral experience in my life.

When worship becomes routine, predictable, and ordinary, it isn’t worship. It isn’t helpful. It doesn’t bring any kind of meaningful praise to the Almighty. And, I think it doesn’t please God.

The little brown church in the vale may be good enough for Mother’s Day but ….

One’s home church may be quite suitable for the funeral of a longtime pew sitter but ….

Weddings are appropriately celebrated in the church building where the bride attended Sunday School but ….

Almost any kind of church structure can make a great place to have a pot-luck dinner but ….

New churches with their worship centers, stages, enlarged seating capacities, and state-of-the-art sound systems may appeal more effectively to the generations born after 1960 but …

But sometimes we need a cathedral.

A place unlike any other. A place with tall spires straining to reach heaven. A place with cast iron bells, Gothic arches, and thick walls. A place with a ceiling high enough to make you want to look up. A place with stained glass windows that illustrate some Bible story. A nave with a long center aisle, a pipe organ good enough not to embarrass J. S. Bach, and little plaques recalling the generosity of people no one remembers. A place that welcomes silence and demands reverence. A place that sets the standard for words like awesome, breath-taking, grand, stunning, sacred, and holy.

Of course, even cathedrals can become ordinary ‑ familiar, routine, taken-for-granted. Stained glass windows block sunlight, high ceilings run up the heating bill, pipe organs are more expensive to maintain and replace than guitars, and silence stifles fellowship.

But that is only if you are being literal. When one gets beneath the literal and physical perspective, he might find a spiritual lesson applicable to life. I have.

Visiting a Mercedes dealer’s showroom can be inspiring to a Chevy owner. A live concert or basketball game adds a dimension unavailable to television watchers. Reading one good book beats reading a thousand billboards. A few hours fishing sustains us more than a day spent at the grocery.

Yes, I am going to take another look at my life and see where I need a cathedral experience.