Grumbling and Obeying

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For your amusement and enlightenment (maybe?), I present a transcript of my inner monologue as I prepared to and mowed the lawn last weekend for the first time in five years.

(Note: I will bleep or edit the swear words. Just bein’ real with you, folks. God ain’t done with me yet. And if any of my students’ parents are reading, I promise I never swear at school. Remember, this is my inner monologue.)

 

Upon waking in bed: Let’s see. The service is at 10 . . . picking up groceries at 12:30 . . . THE LAWN!  (Much groaning and incomprehensible muttering) I’ll call Javie again. No, he can’t do it. I’ll do it this afternoon. No, it’ll be too hot then. I have to do it this morning. But then I’ll have to shower and everything before the service. Nah, I don’t want to mow. I’ll do it Monday.

During my prayer time: Lord, comfort the Blyths today . . . keep Austin safe driving home . . . and . . . and . . . FINE! FINE. I’LL MOW THE @&*$# LAWN.

(Note: yes, I occasionally swear when I’m talking to God. He knows me. He loves me anyway. He ain’t done with me yet.)

In the front yard: Dang, this grass is tall. Correction: these weeds are tall. Not much actual grass here. Why did I wait so long, Jesus? Don’t let me do that again. (And yeah, good luck with that.)

What the blazes is that metal thing sticking out of the ground?? Have the boys always had to mow around that? Apparently so. I should probably know what it is. How do I not have any idea what that metal thing is sticking out of the ground in my front yard? 

Sigh . . . stupid grass . . . stupid metal thing . . . stupid mower . . .

WHY IS IT SO STINKIN’ HOT AT 8AM?? Because this is south Texas, Gwen. You’re not in Kansas anymore.

Fine. Done. The grass weeds are cut. Why does it still look so crappy?

Oh, yeah. The edging. @&*$#. I heard that snicker, Jesus.

Why haven’t I even gotten the new edger out of the bloody box yet? Do I need the box cutter? I don’t want to go back inside for the box cutter. Surely I can open the thing up without a box cutter.

After 10 minutes and a torn but still unopened box: Fine, Jesus. FINE. I’ll get the @&*$# box cutter.

(Note: I call God by a variety of names when we are in conversation – Lord, Father, God – but in situations like this, it seems to usually be “Jesus” that pops out of my mouth. I think because I know Jesus gets these kinds of situations. He mowed lawns. I mean, no, not literally. But he was human and had to occasionally do the miserable, crappy, exhausting, no-fun work that is involved in being a human. So, he gets it. Hallelujah, thine the glory.)

Alright. The brand new edger. It needs to be plugged in. Where are my outdoor cords? Hanging on the wall . . . behind all the boxes I just moved out here. Why the devil did I put all the boxes in front of the cords I need?? Because there’s no place else for them to go, peabrain . . . I hear that chuckling again, Jesus. I’m glad you’re finding this all so entertaining.

Okay, how do you use this thing again? Hold this in and . . . HO – LY CRAP!! Keep that away from your legs, girl!!

Stupid edger . . . stupid lawn . . . if I finish this with all my limbs intact, it’ll be a miracle.

Alright. The green stuff is all short now. I’m done. I’m sweaty and sore and grouchy, but I’m done.

Except there’s all the grass on the driveway and sidewalk. Javie always sweeps that. Because Javie is an awesome young man with an amazing work ethic and lots of energy and I’m paying him. I, on the other hand, am a sweaty, sore, grouchy middle-aged woman, and I don’t want to sweep. I’m done.

Oh, for the love . . . it’s sweeping, Gwen! You did the mowing and the edging, but you’re too much of a wimp to sweep???

(More muttering as I sweep) . . . @&*$# broom . . . @&*$# grass . . .

I think you’re enjoying this too much, Jesus. 

Done. Honest and for real – DONE. And it looks pretty good. And . . . OH, ALRIGHT! I admit it! It wasn't even really that hard! All my griping was unnecessary.

But the backyard is gonna have to wait until next weekend. A gift to you, Lord. Part 2 of the comedy special. 

And now I'm going to shower off the sweat. Stupid sweat . . .

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