I mowed my lawn this week. It was 92 degrees, humid, and sweaty. I have two lawn mowers – a push mower and a self-propelled, neither the kind you ride on. As a person who needs more exercise, I refuse to purchase a riding lawn mower. The grass forces me to work. And at the end of the weekly ritual there is something mysteriously sacred about the mown lawn. For all the work I do, this single ritual most acquaints me with God. I’m not sure why.
My lawn mowing career began as a child at my grandparent’s home. They had beautiful Saint Augustine grass. It even sounds holy. And they owned an ancient lawn mower that had no motor. A twirling set of cutting blades spun round and round, equivalent to the speed with which it was being pushed. The faster you pushed it, the better it cut. Mowing their yard was a group exercise. With 27 cousins hanging around, we each pushed until we couldn’t breathe and then the next cousin took over. I cut my mowing teeth on that old mower.