He Promised His Son

Getting out of work early on a Friday is a real treat, and today is no exception. It is only thirty minutes, but I’ll take it. The only downside means I have to encounter three crossing guards to drive past the high school. It also means I might avoid that dreaded traffic jam midway into my commute home.

Today is the Friday following Labor Day, and the weather could not be more perfect. It is the kind of day where we get the saying, clear blue sky. The oppressive humidity we had been experiencing all summer is a distant memory. My car windows and sunroof are wide open, letting in the scent of the towering pines. One of my favorite podcasts is playing, and I settle into the groove of my seventy-minute commute home.

As I lean into the long sweeping curve of the quiet back road, sunlight through the trees bounces off something white. It catches my eye. In front of a modest, Cape Cod-style house I see an older man mowing his lawn. I see him only for a moment, but it is long enough to notice his angled body leaning into the upright bar of the lawnmower, steadily taking each step. 

And in that split-second, the Holy Spirit whispers, You should offer to mow the lawn for that man. His voice is a familiar one, like that of a good friend. Even so, the objections start almost immediately:

Oh, come on. It’s Friday, and I got out early. I might miss that traffic jam.

He’s going to think I’m crazy, just pulling up and offering to mow his lawn.

If I do that, I’ll deny him the pleasure of accomplishing something.

Have you seen the shoes I’m wearing?

And rather than turn around at the next stop sign, I put on my left turn signal and follow its direction towards home. I don’t go very far before I find myself flicking on the left turn signal again. This time it is to enter the parking lot of the soccer fields so I can turn around and go back.

Still, more objections kick in, but I know enough to ignore them. I slow down considerably and trace my path back to find the house. And there he is! The sun acts like a beacon as it shines on this older man, plodding along, mowing his lawn.

I pull into his driveway and say a quick prayer for courage. Then, get out of my car, look up at the sky, and to the Holy Spirit say, Okay, I’m doing this, but it is not me. It is all you!

Walking the short distance down his driveway, I time my appearance so he will be approaching me. I don’t want to come up from behind and frighten him. Unsure how to start this conversation, I merely smile and wave. Next, he does something so unexpected I will never, ever forget the vision. He looks at me, pushes the lawnmower with all his might, and lets go of the handle, essentially turning off the engine. He raises both arms high overhead in a victory stance. The silent “Tada!” is deafening.

He walks towards me as if he were expecting me, almost as if he were glad I had finally made it. The awkwardness I was sure would be there is not. All that is there is an older man. The closer he comes I can see he is short of breath and exhales deeply as he comes to a stop.

I guess him to be eighty-five years old. He is wearing long, faded jeans with a well-worn belt cinched at his waist. On the front of his white t-shirt is a screen print of an island with the words St. Thomas across the top. This shirt has seen better days. The neckband is dissolved along the edge, giving him a double layer of material encircling his neck.

He starts the conversation with a rousing, “How do you do?” Answering him that I am fine, I inquire about him and then point to his lawnmower.

“I see you are mowing your lawn. How would you like it if I help and finish it for you?” I tell him that I like mowing lawns and that he would be doing me a favor. 

He thanks me for the offer and says, “This is my favorite thing to do!” And by the expression on his face, I know he means it. Mowing the lawn is the one thing he still can do, and loves to do it. 

“But, I’m supposed to take breaks. I have A-fib.” (A-fib is a heart condition where the electrical circuits in the heart go haywire, and the heart beats at an excessive rate.) His son prefers he not mow the lawn anymore. He has promised his son he will take breaks. By the determined look on his face when I first saw him, I am skeptical he has remembered this promise.

He continues to share a surprise his son pulled on him. The lawnmower cord had frayed, and he had difficulty tugging it to start the mower. His son picked up the lawnmower to get it repaired. When he came back, he brought him a brand-new lawnmower instead. It is the first time he is using it.

We turn our attention to the brand-new shiny, red lawnmower. The freshly cut grass clippings strewn across the bright red paint look like Christmas, and it is comforting.

“So, what’s your name,” my new friend asks. 

“Carol,” I respond. And thinking back to the colors on the lawnmower I give him a hint to remember my name, “Like a Christmas song. Carol.” He looks down, and I wonder if he is reminiscing about past Christmases. When he looks back up, our eyes meet. Suddenly his smile broadens and encompasses his whole face, his blue eyes dancing in place.

It is my turn. “What’s your name?”

“Norm,” he answers. 

“That’s great!” I say. “Everybody knows your name!” And now we are smiling at the reference to the tv show Cheers. And then I can not help myself. I have to try it out. “Norrrmmmm!” I exclaim, and we both laugh as if enjoying a private joke. 

After we exhaust the virtues of the lawn mower our conversation turns to his garden. The second plant from the end is a tomato plant. If I look closely, he gestures, will be able to see some green tomatoes. I nod enthusiastically, although I do not catch sight of the tomato plant.

He also has eggplant and summer squash. His son built the twenty-by-thirty-foot raised bed and filled it with good soil. Speaking of his son must have called to mind his promise because he again tells me he has A-fib and needs to take breaks.

He points to the picture window at the front of his house and informs me that his wife, Sally, is inside making something good for dinner. I tell him he is a lucky man.

Taking my cue from his shirt, I ask him if he has ever been to St. Thomas. He says yes, but he much prefers St. John. It is much quieter. Asking if he has visited since the hurricane went through there, he barks, “Blue tarps!” and then elaborates. “The government gave everyone blue tarps to prevent rain from coming through their roofs. Blue tarps everywhere.”

I notice a Coast Guard sticker on his car, and he tells me he is retired from there. He worked as a medic on the boat and liked it because he went out on every call. Then, shaking his head as if still in disbelief, says that after twenty years, they made him retire. He removes his flat-brimmed baseball cap and runs his hand through his cropped white hair. He brightens when he says, “They keep sending me checks!”

My son is a merchant marine so we talk maritime for a bit. Then we circle back to the fact that he has A-fib and needs to take breaks.

The conversation comfortably comes to a close. His breathing is normal now. I mention that I drive by the house to get to and from work and will think of him each time I pass.

As I turn and walk back to my car, I hear the sound of the lawnmower starting. Driving past the front of his house, I see him straining to see me through the trees. I get to a clearing, and at the same time, we wave a hand high in the air, bidding our farewell.

Twelve minutes. That is all that took; twelve minutes out of my day. I am ashamed of my earlier objections and chide myself for not mowing his lawn. Then the Holy Spirit whispers, He is supposed to take breaks. 

I was never supposed to mow his lawn. 

Norm has A-fib. He needs to take breaks. He promised his son.

I smile so wide it catches my tears. And, sure enough, I find myself entangled in that dreaded traffic jam. It is the same, but Im not.