Just for the record, the only thing that I like about yard work is the fact that, unlike 99% of the things I do around the house, someone can't come along moments later and undo the fruits of my labor (think dirty laundry, eaten meals, mucked up bathrooms...).


When I set out to do the lawn (trimming, edging, mowing, tackling the hedges, sweeping--I'm nothing if not through) my intentions were (mostly) to quiet the nagging feeling that I'd soon be getting a nasty gram from my HOA, then to assure my husband some free time to finish his consulting job this weekend in between soccer matches, and finally because it was one of those perfect Florida days when it's a downright sin to stay inside, and after all, I didn't really have time to make it to the beach before I had to get the kids from school.


I was doing well until I got to the Beast.



The Beast is the hedge that our property "shares" with our next door neighbors. I say "shares" because it's mostly (all) ON their side. It's a HUGE box hedge and gets overgrown fairly quickly. Our neighbors are older (retired), and he's pretty frail and she's rather frugal, so they don't pay their lawn service the extra few hundred dollars it would take to maintain it. Historically, we've gone ahead and trimmed (hacked?) it down because it was the nice thing to do.


This day was no exception. I had a decent attitude until about 15 minutes in to the 2 hour job. Then my inner three year old kicked in.


I began to lecture the inner child, much like I would one of my own offspring.


This is the right thing to do. It's honoring of our elders. It's loving our neighbor. It's serving the Lord.


I pressed through the trimming and began the job of raking and gathering the huge piles of leaves.


Then I heard their garage door open. It was Bob, my frail, early dementia, mid stage Parkinson's neighbor. He was standing and watching me with tears glinting in his eyes.


"You", he stammered, "you're sick!" (He remembers when I moved here very clearly). "You shouldn't have to do this...you're doing my work!".

"It's okay, Bob, I don't mind. Besides, I'm not sick anymore, see?" I pulled off my baseball cap and ruffled my hair to offer proof of my wellness.


"I don't know why I don't do things like this anymore....Lazy, I guess."


Needless to say, I was humbled to the core.


"Bob, you're not lazy. I see you out and about all the time...where are you going now?"


His eyes lit up. "For subs....I'm going to buy you lunch!".


As I was finishing up, he returned.


"Is it right? I probably screwed it up. I screw up things all the time."


"No Bob, it's perfect."


And it was--not for my lunch, as I'm not a fan of mayo, olives, or white bread (but my boys loved it as an afternoon snack)--but as gentle reminder that even when I don't feel "properly appreciated", that God won't be outloved or outgiven.