God can redeem anything.

You guys.

He really absolutely can.

We can have all this head knowledge, right?  We can know stuff and say that we know stuff and we can think that we know stuff.

And then.

Our theology falls painfully short when all the stuff hits the fan.  All.  The.  Stuff.

Then we find out in a shameful hurry that our head knowledge just lived up there.  It took up no permanent residence in our heart.

All head.  No heart.

All theory.  No action.

But God is a God who takes bits and pieces that we think are too broken, parts of the whole we think are unworthy, and He reshapes and repairs.  And usually He does all of this when we aren’t looking.  When we think it can’t be done or it doesn’t count any more.

Sometimes He redeems gigantic portions of our story in grand ways.  (I’m attending a wedding in a few weeks for a lovely friend whose story is trending that direction right now.  She’s glowing and marveling and although she’s always been a beautiful soul, it’s a bit like watching a shooting star or a rainbow.  We all feel like spectators to glory.)

And sometimes it’s a small, equally unexpected, way.  A sort of mundane piece of the puzzle that it would be simple to completely overlook, to chalk up to better times or a sunshiny day.

But when you’re remembering to see the world for what it is, a perfectly ordained and orchestrated place, the mundane isn’t actually so mundane.  The regular carries a new weight.

So it was for me this week.  The tiny and unanticipated redemption of a very ordinary task.

Mowing the grass.

Some things are triggers – right?

I’m sure it works this way after any traumatic event.  A song.  A scent.  Walking into a certain room.  An anniversary.  Even a specific word.

You can’t entirely explain why it works like it works.  The brain is a science but it’s also a mystery too.

For me, mowing grass has long been a button pusher.  It’s not that I dislike mowing.  It actually creates a pleasant satisfaction of completing a task, however short lived it is.

But there’s something about the way the grass keeps growing on its own timeline, with no concern for my schedule or when I might actually have time to cut it (or have the kids cut it.)  It isn’t the labor, it’s the hanging-over-my-head nature of the task.  It’s the reminder of the truth that lives at my house – it’s as if the grass is saying to me, “You’re it here, single parent.  No one is in charge of this but you.”

That’s right, my grass talks to me and she’s never been very politically correct or kind in her tone.  She’s a finger pointer and a name caller.  It  feels ridiculous to admit, but there it is anyway.

For the past three years whenever the grass needs mowing I suddenly feel put upon, alone and angry.

Our grass seemed to burst forth in lengthy greenness too early and I’ve done nothing about it for a month or more.

There’s been mower drama that was divinely solved.

And then there was today.

When my fourteen year old daughter said to me, “Mom, I’ve finished all my school and my chores.  May I mow the grass?”

(I am not making this up.)

And so the redemption began.

She mowed for a while.  Happily.  (Despite the itchy eyes it leads to for her.)

She came in for a break.  (Because she wanted to bake brownies.  What?  Is she in the running for saint or something?  Whatever.  I’ve learned not to ask questions but just to accept the good gifts as they come.)

I was tired of typing all day.  Tired of sitting down and tired of being indoors.

I headed outside to finish up what sections remained.

I wasn’t angry and I wasn’t brooding and I was only thinking about uninterrupted time to think through a couple of upcoming opportunities and maybe rearrange a room or two in my mind.

I finished the task with a sense of pleasure.  My mind never once drifted to feeling angry or agitated, put upon or alone.  I felt grateful to be in the sunshine.  Exceedingly thankful for a working lawnmower.  Satisfied to see the lawn return to tidy.  Enthusiastic about enjoying the freshly cut field for a game of soccer with the kids.

That may not sound like anything noteworthy you guys, but it sounds like full on redemption to me.

Redemption of toil.

If God can redeem lawn mowing, if He can redeem my rotten attitude and self-pitying feelings, if He can redeem the way my unmown grass used to shout bad feelings at me, He can redeem anything.

 

 

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