I love mowing my lawn. It is therapeutic for me. On most Mondays, I put on a pair of headphones blasting something good (The Autumn Film, MuteMath, Wayne Grudem's Systematic Theology), fill up the weed-whacker and the mower with gas, and get to work. My yard is not actually that big, but our house is right next to our neighborhood greenbelt, so I end up mowing more than I need to. I've been living at my current house for 6 years, and the lawn has been improving each and every year.
Last week, when I mowed the lawn, I tried a new pattern: diagonal stripes instead of the usual horizontal. I was meticulous, thorough, and altogether obsessive-compulsive. The quality was major-league-ballfield-worthy. When I was finished, I was overcome with a deep sense of pride and accomplishment.
(Side note: some sort of philosophical, spiritual diatribe about feeling a good and healthy sense of pride as opposed to the sinful, selfish kind of pride...I dunno, just something...)
As ridiculous as it sounds, I found myself walking over to the window and admiring my lawn for the next 2 days. I just loved looking at the lines! (You are all concerned for my sanity, right now, huh?) I think I drove my wife nuts with my continual self-congratulating trips to the window so as to admire my work. She loves me in spite of my insanity.
I was perfectly content to be proud of my own work, with no accolades from anyone else. My lawn is between God and me. However, yesterday, a letter arrived in the mail from my homeowner's association.
I don't really have any reason to share this with you other than to allow you to share in my joy. My wife was incredibly embarrassed at my dancing, whooping, and fist-pumping when I received this letter. You would have thought that I'd won the lottery.
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