The rains came and we certainly ran and hid our heads. No way to dash between the pulsing drops, the hailstones and their steel drum cacophony on roofs, cars, and roadways. This Reggae racket dispelled the days prior laced with warmth and bringing summer cookout thoughts. I shed a shirt and popped out on the deck – dark so no one would faint at the sight of my 6 pack abs and sveltely rippling muscles. Well, not so much, but the splats certainly brought chills and a bit of Jamaican hop to my enjoyment of it all. “Make da music, mon…” Glad the hail was pebble-ish – I didn’t stay out long, just enough to be silly, to live the Caribbean moment sans the sea and its rolling tide across white sand. I’m pretty sure a squirrel on night scurry scampered past. I know I heard the trailing, “Idiot hooman!” as it became but a blur shadow in sheets of wind-stirred storm.
I enjoy taking time to dispel the “why now rain” whines of “I’ve got so much mowing to catch up now.” Yes, I’ll have most of eight hours on the big property I do plus a 30-minute drive to a Brookfield business I enjoy doing – not big, but enough to be worth the work, especially the cool-off, windows wide open, tire humming jaunt on the back roads. I don’t think at all anymore about that cup half full or half empty. I just refill. Pretty much what VELC does right now. We look at what we have, what we want, how we’re blessed, how we will be blessed on a new journey. Review. Good to look over the landscape, the various thinks prominently afoot, the needs, and the faith shepherding. Doesn’t take much to know our cup gets filled pretty regularly. We have different speakers on Sundays, different music, a nuance here and there. Soon we move to one service and the summertime schedules. Always an attendance challenge, but why stress on the count? Those present make music, shed the week and feel the patter of God’s blessings on needing minds and hearts. If we offer it, if we offer the Word of God bound in Faith in Jesus Christ and sustained by the presence of Holy Spirit, people will come. Seeds and fertile ground. Reggae rhythm of piano-ed joy in praise, silent hope in the soft time of prayers, and visualizing eyes as the Word comes from our shepherds.
Riding the bounce-jounce-along humming of the branch crunching, grass clipping zero steer grows monotonous on the wide-open spaces. No around a tree challenge, miss the leech bed vent pipes, don’t scalp the slope-top, quick brake, whip steer, off I go…No water in the ditch slope to capture my tires, mire my move mow into a slop spin, “aww come on, man I’m stupid” moment. But then, that Killdeer gives clever entertainment and Robins quickly land behind me to search for seeds, worms, and such like. I stop to collect a hawk feather, to feel the flight, the soar and ruffle of it in a daydream second or two. The recent winds have blown a nest onto the clearing – eggs broken by night scavengers, the blue cracked, empty. Overhead a small ‘V’ of geese honks hello and my look up leaves a crooked, have to square it up trail in the tall greenery. I remember too late to avoid the sprouting rhubarb and spend some laps thinking about telling the house folks. But, the glass stays full and I spin the wheel for the return trip, the journey in its early stages, the clippings spring fresh in the wet aftermath. ~~ submitted by Dave Smith