To Mow the Grass

It's 9:44 in the morning, and I wish I was mowing. I wish that I could hop into a truck, go out...out to a country cemetery for the whole day. I wish that I could sit on the back of a riding lawn mower, stop, and think for a while. And then, at 5:00, I'd come home and eat. I wouldn't wake up at 5:45 in the morning thinking about the lawns to be done tomorrow (or three weeks from now). I wouldn't spend large chunks of time thinking about the color of the paint or the cut of the blade. I'd get something done. I'd just mow.

I've spent the last two hours at my computer writing (and erasing and writing and erasing) the "Pastor's Pen" for this month's newsletter. Tonight's sermon remains unwritten (along with Sunday's)...and the plan for Saturday's Deacon's Retreat currently consists of me asking the group "How are you all doing?" and hoping they talk for five hours. I'm just tired. And, as I sit here in my office, I feel like I've written everything I've got...and I've only been here six months. This is a new feeling for me. And I don't like it.

Of course, above all of this, I remember working in a warehouse right before seminary and getting to the point where I realized that I had no real passion for my work, that I could care less if the widgets were delivered to Hartford or not. I craved the work of the church, like the marrow had been sucked out of my bones. I love my job...and I still believe it is what God has called me to do...and God, thanks heavens, keeps doing it in spite of me (and giving me energy and times to rest as I do it). But today...today the stacks seem too high, the words are out of reach, the self-pity seems warm and comforting, and I feel like I'm spinning my wheels.

Today...I want to mow.