Sunday afternoons,
with sun and breeze, are made for yard work – though I don’t
think of it as work. I come home from church, still humming the
hymns, change my clothes, put on an old pair of work gloves (it’s
not work) and haul out the push mower. No engine, just spinning
blades as I walk back and forth across the lawn – to and fro upon
the lawn, walking up and down in it.
With a portable
speaker on the porch, I listen to music as I walk the yard. I sing
along, full voiced – or as full voiced as I can be. Sometimes I get
a little winded pushing the mower and pulling weeds. Maybe the
neighbors hear me. Maybe they don’t. Doesn’t matter. I enjoy it.
Today I also dug up
some new flower beds. I shoveled up the soil, laid in some compost
from my heap in the backyard, and planted a variety of annuals and
perennials: Coneflowers, Black-Eyed Susans, Morning Glories, 4
O’clock Flowers, Sweet Basil, Poppies, Dahlias, Lilies, and a mix
of assorted wildflowers.
Sweated and
slightly exhausted I surveyed my handiwork (it’s not work) and
realized that Gunner was there. Watching with his arms crossed across
his chest. He was not amused.
“Shouldn’t you
be resting, Carter? It’s the Sabbath.”
I pulled off the
gloves and knocked the dirt from them. I also noticed the dirt under
my fingernails. “Gunner. Good to see you as always,” I said. I
used my pocketknife to dig the dirt out.
“Six days you
shall labor, Carter.” Gunner said. “You’ve got six days to do
all your work but the seventh – Sunday – is a Sabbath to the
Lord, your God.”
“Gunner,” I
said. “You are a joy and a wonder, aren’t you?”
“No work or labor
of any kind. No kindling fire. No gathering food. No commerce -buying
or selling. No carrying of burdens.”
I took a large
drink of water from my thermos. It’s important to stay hydrated,
after all. I took off my cap and wiped sweat from my brow. “It’s
not work, Gunner. I enjoy this. The sun on my face. The smell of the
cut grass and the dirt. This is not work; this is a pleasure.”
“That’s out
too, Carter. You must refrain from doing thy pleasure on the Lord’s
holy day. You can’t call the Sabbath a delight. The Sabbath is not
for personal pleasure. It is reserved for honoring the Lord. You need
to find an inward posture of reverence and worship instead of these
self-centered activities.
“Self-centered?”
I asked. “Self-centered? Do you think this is all for me? And I think
you’re missing the point of that chapter in Isaiah.” He glared at
me. “Yeah, I recognize the reference.”
“Work, trade, and
trivial pursuits are beyond the Sabbath boundaries.”
“Trivial?
Trivial?” I said. “All the produce of the garden is with
resurrection filled, that the Lord may have a city fruits of
resurrection build.”
“What? Is that
supposed to be a hymn or something?”
“It’s here in
the yard that I rest,” I continued. “I am restored. I am
resurrected. My body, fresh, my mind attuned to the day. It’s here
that I am made whole again. The garden of the world is remade. Order
and beauty are brought out of chaos. The bees are fed. The
neighborhood is filled with color. And God is praised.”
Gunner kicked a
clod of dirt
“And yes. It is a
hymn, though not often sung. You should look it up; Margaret Jenkins
Harris had a few good ones.” I offered him a trowel. “Would you
like to lend a hand?”
He kicked another
clod of dirt and turned away.
The Previous Conversations:
An Imaginary Conversation with a Real Troll (the first of the series)
I Will Not Fight the Argument (the second)
Supermarket Wrestling (third conversation)
Do You Even Pray (the troll returns)
All Means All (A fifth conversation)
The Doctrine that Cannot Be Challenged (sixth conversation)
Toward Sodom - (a halfhearted seventh conversation)
Millions of Years of Death (the eighth conversation)
Truth with Untruth (the ninth conversation)
Bulls, Dogs, and Villains (the tenth conversation)
The Righteous Forsaken (the eleventh conversation)
