Welcome to Joiner's Corner

I’ve written about Dude before. He’s the mongrel of unknown heritage who moved from California to Georgia over a year ago. Dude and Louise, a streetwise chihuahua, shared a house with our son in Los Angeles. Louise and Seth now have their own place at the farm. Dude lives with Jane and me.

Seth’s back yard in Los Angeles was enclosed with a high wooden fence, but Dude barked too much to be left there. Neighbors on both sides had regular sleeping habits that the big dog did not fully appreciate. The animal shelter said if Dude came back again, he wouldn’t be leaving on a leash. They had a three-strike rule and Seth had tossed the third pitch.

The first challenge we faced was convincing Dude to remain inside our fenced yard. It’s a nice area which has been home to three other fine dogs, all now happily roaming in the land of golden fire hydrants. Libby, Freckles, and Lilly were perfectly content with their grassed playground, luxury garage suite, and 24-hour buffet. But not the Dude. He kept climbing the chain-link fence and showing up at our back door.

It took several months for Dude to understand how good he has it and stop looking for escape routes. Except for occasional barking that was slightly beyond the norm, all was well. Lately, however, he’s reverted to his California ways. He barks non-stop for hours, mostly at night. I don’t think he’s awakening our neighbors, but I’m afraid to ask.   

Our current troubles can be traced back to December 8^th of last year. Without any warning, Dude suddenly appeared to be dying. Rather than going with us for his usual afternoon walk, he struggled to even stand. Jane and Seth coaxed him into the cab of my pickup and took him to the vet.

An x-ray showed a mass in his stomach and internal bleeding. The vet said he’d probably live a couple of weeks. They discussed putting him down, but Dude apparently understood the conversation. He perked up and trotted out the door with pain pills, steroids, and a new attitude.

That was almost a year ago. Maybe it’s an answer to prayer. Or it could be that what showed up on the x-ray wasn’t what it seemed. Either way, I’m beginning to think we shouldn’t have told Dude how much we loved him. He seems to be taking advantage of it.

His barking has occasionally been annoying but was for good canine causes – motorcycles, delivery trucks, or anything with a loud muffler. In early September, however, Dude transitioned to all-night bark parties. He has shown a special affinity for trains.

A railroad track is about a mile from our home, with mostly open fields between us. We often hear the soft rumble of trains at night, a distant noise that’s rather conducive to sleep. But Dude has a different opinion. He hears the trains long before they reach here and well after they’re gone. He barks the whole time, then celebrates running them off. I’ve tried to quieten him but had no success. 

My first technique was to open the back door and gently reason with him. “Dude,” I would say calmly while looking into his big innocent eyes, “do you remember what we talked about? Remember how I told you that we like to sleep at night? We’d really appreciate your help. You’re a good boy.”

Two weeks later I switched to my firm no-nonsense voice. “Dude! Knock it off! I’m tired of all that barking. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you! Don’t make me come out here again!”

Then finally, I stumbled across something that worked. When I shined a flashlight at him through our bedroom window, he retreated to his quarters. Apparently, his past included a bad experience with a beam of light. I hated to remind him of that but was thankful for a decent night’s sleep. Sadly, it took him less than a week to figure out my ploy. The flashlight trick now only buys a few minutes of peace.

Thinking music might soothe him, I tuned his radio to Willie’s Roadhouse for some classic country. It seemed to be working until they played “Folsom Prison Blues.” When Johnny Cash sang, “I hear the train a coming,” Dude howled along. He didn’t stop until Conway Twitty said, “Hello Darling.”

I don’t know what else to do, so that’s why I’m writing this column. A solution that doesn’t involve shocking, shooting, or bringing him inside is what we’re looking for. You can call most any time, even at night. If there’s a train rolling through Coley Crossing, we’ll probably be awake.                

Saltine crackers go well with many foods. Let’s start with sardines. I don’t know how I lost my taste for sardines but wish I could find it. A recent health article recommended eating oily fish on a regular basis. Sardines were ranked in the top group and for good reason. They push the limits as to how oily a fish can be.

During my youth, I considered sardines quite appetizing. Daddy deserves most of the credit for that. Watching him enjoy them made me want to join the party. They were his Sunday night after church go-to meal. He’d roll back the thin tin top with the key glued to the can, douse the little fish with vinegar, then sprinkle them with black pepper. Sometimes he’d add onion, but I left that off. My appreciation for onions didn’t evolve until I discovered what they can do for a poolroom hotdog.

It’s possible my taste buds changed when I over analyzed the canning process. As I began wondering how thoroughly those tiny fish had been cleaned, that was the beginning of the end. Plus, I’ve grown increasingly reluctant to eat anything that looks like it could still swim.      

The perfect complement to the sardines of yesteryear was Saltine crackers. That’s probably still the case, but my opinion was formed back when the salt in a single cracker could elevate blood pressure by twenty points. Saltines don’t seem as potent as they were in my youth. Either the crackers have changed, or I have. Or it may be a little of both.

Saltines, it should be noted, are well suited for other fine foods – potted meat and Vienna sausage being in the top tier. It’s been a long time since I’ve dined on either of those once cherished fares also. My menu was downsized after I spent too much time thinking about the meaning of “genuine meat byproducts.” Some things are best not to know unless we want to let go.

Soup is another good fit for Saltines as is chili. Or if you want a great snack just smear a little peanut butter on top of a cracker. Saltines go well with salads too, although they now face considerable competition. Life was much simpler in childhood when the only choices were Saltines or Ritz.

A Saltine’s finest pairing, based on my highly refined palate, may be when it’s topped with good cheese. One of my treasured memories is of eating crackers and hoop cheese on Max Garland’s boat in the Gulf of Mexico. We were fishing for trout, drifting in the flats out from the mouth of the Econfina River. That was probably thirty years ago or maybe more. It’s a blessing that good memories don’t easily fade.

Max was a friend of my father-in-law, Bennett Horne. They fished together a lot of Saturdays and I was fortunate enough to join them on a number of occasions. Max was a big man, well over 300 pounds. He didn’t have a sculpted body like folks who advertise exercise equipment, but he had some serious horsepower in his massive hands.

On one of our fishing trips Max pulled out a giant hunk of cheese he’d bought at a country store. It was the kind with the red wax coating that was sliced to order before packaged products became the norm. Max set the cheese on the side of the boat and said we’d let it warm for a spell in the sunshine.

An hour or so later, he opened a box of Saltines. As the late comedian Jerry Clower would have said, “That’s when we commenced to eating.” It was the best cheese I’d ever had and always will be.      

I don’t know if there’s less salt in Saltines today or it’s my imagination. It could be that the salt has become rather mellow. Salt can look the same but have no savor. I know that can happen because Jesus mentioned it in Matthew 5:13.

“You are the salt of the earth,” he said. “But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled by men.”

Maybe I’m wrong and I hope I am, but it seems to me the salt of the earth is becoming increasingly bland. That’s a troubling thought because salt without savor is useless. But what bothers me most is something I need to work on. I’m finding it far too easy to get accustomed to the taste. 

My wife pointed to a giant spider web as I was about to leave home one August morning. Jane took multiple pictures, trying to capture its remarkable size and intricate detail in the early sunlight.

“You want me to knock it down or leave it there so we can walk into it later?” I asked. My preference was for immediate action, knowing at some point the other option might lead to a series of contorted maneuvers. I’ve done the spider web dance many times. It’s not a pretty sight.

“Let’s don’t bother it,” she said with noticeable intrigue. “I want to see what happens.”

Despite serious misgivings, I made no objection. My approach to spiders is like Garfield the cartoon cat. He rarely passes up a chance to flatten one with a newspaper. I realize spiders help eliminate other pests, but it’s hard for me to let them walk away. Arachnid attacks can be devastating.

According to the research department at Joiner’s Corner, there are two major categories of spiders. A single bite from any in the first group can kill a grown man or a small horse. Getting bitten by a member of the second grouping is not terminal, but the venom causes temporary paralysis. Mobility gradually returns in three to five hours and requires no treatment. A full recovery can be expected, unless the spider begins wrapping you in its fiber. Your only option then is prayer.         

I’m kidding about death and paralysis, but serious about there being two categories of spiders. The most dangerous group includes those that will hurt you. In the other group are the ones that cause you to hurt yourself. Some people, including my mother, contend there is a third category for those that are harmless. Maybe they’re right, but I’m not interested in venturing unarmed into the land of good spiders. They just don’t seem trustworthy.

The massive web that attracted Jane’s attention was magnificently constructed. It measured about three feet across in every direction and had an artistic symmetry of connecting silk threads. The feature which made it unique, however, was the long span of its support lines.

About 20 feet off the ground, the top strand was attached to a magnolia tree. The other end was secured to a shrub almost 40 feet away. That’s a good leap even for Spiderman, so I couldn’t figure out how a little web-slinger with no wings could sail across. That seemingly impossible feat caused me to think she might not be so little. That’s when I decided to head to the farm.  

Later that day I read how spiders make their webs. I’ll confess it increased my admiration for them. They drop a silk line from whatever point they choose and let the wind float the lower loose end to another anchor spot. I don’t know if they check the weather forecasts or just give it a shot and see what happens. Instinct is beyond my comprehension, especially for insects.

It’s amazing that something the size of a fifty-cent piece can generate a fiber light enough to float yet strong enough to stabilize an extensive suspension bridge. To that top anchor line, the spider adds more silk to strengthen it, then adeptly weaves a web below.

Around 8:30 that morning is when I left home. About two hours later Jane was in the yard and saw the spider taking the web down. An insect had been captured, but we don’t know what it was. When my wife began videoing, the helpless prey was already bound up mummy style. The spider pushed the web strands together, like rolling up a window shade, then gathered it along with her sack lunch. Some spiders go through this routine every night or day. They spin a web, catch a bug, then recycle the silk. Those spiders are females, I presume. Men don’t even like to make up a bed.

Our backyard buddy was an orb-weaver, we believe. They have eight eyes, which explains why I’ve seldom had success sneaking up behind them. Orkin’s website said orb-weavers rarely bite and when they do it’s comparable to a bee sting. I don’t know if that means the tolerable sting of a honeybee or something horrendous like a yellow jacket. It probably depends on the size of the spider and their attitude. And whether they recognize you from prior encounters. 

The video Jane took has mellowed my thinking about spiders. Their ingenuity has caused me to reconsider my harsh approach. I don’t claim to have made a complete turnaround. It’s possible, however, I may feel a tinge of regret the next time I swat one of those creepy little crawlers into eternity.

If there’s ever a contest to rate foreboding phrases, my entry would be “Some Assembly Required.” Those three words sometimes cause my blood pressure to rise. How high it goes depends on the number of parts.   

My latest trying experience was assembling a small gas grill, a bargain I miraculously discovered online for $97. Some folks spend untold hours and their children’s inheritance in pursuit of the perfect cooker. For me it only took minutes. I sorted a gazillion options by price, then clicked on the cheapest one before the sale ended. I’ll admit, however, being a tad suspicious of quality when the seller responded with a laughter emoji. 

FedEx delivered the grill on a Saturday. I thought the driver would need my help to unload it, but the box weighed less than a good birdhouse. Portability is a great product feature that wasn’t even mentioned in the ad.   

I’m not sure when I first became aware of the implications of Some Assembly Required. One of my earliest recollections is when Santa Claus brought our young triplets a playset with three swings, a slide, and a glider that could seat up to four kids. That was in the early part of the 1980s.

St. Nick waited until our children were asleep to toss gifts from his sleigh. Apparently, he was on a tight schedule as countless pieces were scattered across our back yard. Our neighbors, Mark Ingram and Chuck Coley, helped me put it together. We finished a little before the rooster crowed.

Our old gas grill, which is now on sabbatical, is also from that era. It was just a few years after the swing set when we brought our Patio Kitchen 8000 home. Erin, our firstborn, was not yet a teenager when she offered to take care of the assembly. I think we paid her five dollars. It’s wonderful when both parties feel good about a transaction.

That grill performed splendidly for decades. I’ve replaced the burners multiple times and may do so again one day. I love the glass viewing window and it’s body of real steel, but even with tender loving care she’s showing signs of heavy wear. The cooking grate has almost burned through in the middle, so I figured the old girl had earned a rest. She’s almost like family, so I’m not quite ready to say goodbye.   

Another adventure with Some Assembly Required came along a few years ago. I bought a piece of exercise equipment and spent about a month putting it together. It has weights and riggings for 99 musclebuilding routines thanks to 10 miles of crisscrossed cables. After two weeks of turning wrenches, I called the company for help just like the material suggested. That’s when I figured out why it had been sold as a non-returnable clearance item.

The nice lady who answered the phone couldn’t help me. She suggested I call back later, which I did several times on different days. She was always pleasant, spoke some English, and wanted to assist, but the man who might possibly be able to answer my question was never available.    

The company didn’t have any supplemental instructions, so I asked if a phone video could be made showing how to route the cables. She texted me exactly what I needed to solve the puzzle. Now the only thing lacking is someone to use it. It’s outside, too inconvenient for hanging clothes on. Plus, we already have a stationary bike in the bedroom for that.

Admittedly, my problems are often self-inflicted by not following directions. “Read all instructions before beginning assembly” is a common warning I consistently ignore. Directions also frequently suggest following the steps in order and identifying the parts. Some even recommend waiting to tighten the nuts after everything is in place. It’s hard to imagine anyone would go to that much trouble.

Assembly instructions for the new grill said it should take about 30 minutes. By doing it my way, however, I extended the completion time to two hours. The grill looks ready for a Friday night steak, but I’m wondering if the leftover parts are important. Putting things together can be frustrating.                   

Sometimes I wonder if God gets frustrated when I neglect to follow His instructions. Some Assembly Required might be appropriate on my forehead. But a line from a song helps remind me of something I’m thankful for: “How loving and patient He must be. He’s still working on me.”

An August column, “The Weeds in My Garden,” compared weeds in the plant world to those which infest our spiritual gardens. A follow-up piece wasn’t planned, but I had a recurring thought that what I’d written was incomplete. It didn’t feel right to identify a problem without offering a solution.

On the Friday morning of posting that column, I read an article in Growing Georgia about advances in weed control based on genetic codes. Maybe the proximate timing of our stories was coincidental, but I wondered if it was something more. Either way, I decided to address how to deal with weeds in our spiritual gardens.

This isn’t meant to be all encompassing and may not be the best methods for spiritual weed control. I’m not offering a one-size-fits-all solution. These are mostly thought starters, something to help initiate the process if you feel the need.

The ideal approach to spiritual weed control is to not let them get started. Benjamin Franklin is credited for saying, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” He was trying to encourage fire prevention strategies in Philadelphia, but his comment is applicable to countless situations. Rather than having to fight established weeds, our first step should be to keep them out. We do that by maintaining a healthy garden. By nurturing seeds of faith with good soil and stewardship, our gardens will have vigorous plants and produce abundant fruits.

If, however, we’re slack in our efforts to tend our gardens, the vacant spots will be filled otherwise. Weeds of the plant world are constantly looking for open spaces. Even a tiny crack in a city sidewalk will attract their attention. It’s the same in the spiritual realm. Spiritual weeds are thrilled with open fields, but they are also constantly searching for little crevices. The ideal plan includes a firm commitment to keep them out of our gardens. Exceptions always lead to trouble.   

But what should we do when a weed, or perhaps several, have taken hold? There are only three choices – embrace, ignore, or fight. Embracement is how they find their way in. It later allows them to flourish and sometimes spread far beyond where expected. When sin is embraced, there’s no cure but grace.  

Ignoring weeds is never a viable route. A friend of mine told me about sitting on a creek bank one day fishing. He was relaxed and having a wonderful time until he noticed a moccasin was resting beside him. After weighing his options, he decided to try a hasty escape. Getting up posed some risk by disturbing the snake but disregarding the moccasin would have been a more dangerous choice. Ignoring spiritual weeds is no different. They’re prone to bite rather than slither away.

Assuming we wisely choose to fight our spiritual weeds, a Barney Fife approach is worth considering. Mayberry’s beloved deputy had a memorable line he often employed about crime. No matter how insignificant the infraction, he would passionately plead with Sheriff Taylor, “Andy, we have to nip it in the bud. Nip it! Nip it! Nip it!”

Barney would project how something minor, like letting a kid ride a bicycle on a sidewalk, could lead to a life of crime. Granted, he got a bit carried away, but his tactic is perfect for battling spiritual weeds. We need to get rid of them before the roots take hold and the seeds are scattered.   

There’s another saying that seems appropriate: “Don’t ever take a knife to a gunfight.” I don’t know where I heard that, maybe from an old western. I thought about it when a high school classmate named Smitty posted a comment about my earlier column. He said he needed a tractor for his weeds, that a hoe wouldn’t do the job.

Smitty was kidding, but it caused me to think about the importance of the right equipment. No matter how good our intentions are, we can’t get rid of spiritual weeds unless we’re properly equipped. You can read more about that in Ephesians 6:11-18. It begins with, “Put on the whole armor of God.” We can’t successfully fight sin alone, but we don’t have to. God’s armor is ours for the asking.

The options for dealing with spiritual weeds are simple – embrace, ignore, or fight. Choosing isn’t complicated unless we allow it to be. It all depends on what we want to grow in our gardens.  

I’m not a reliable source for giving advice on chainsaws. There is, however, one thing I can say with certainty: They cut much better if the chain is sharp. That’s common knowledge and probably not useful, unless you have the same bad habit I do. Sometimes I ignore what I know.  

Although I grew up on a farm, I rarely used a chainsaw until I was grown. Julius Bembry, who worked with my father for decades, took care of the occasional limbs or small trees that needed attention. He could handle a saw with such expertise it looked deceptively easy and rather enticing. Daddy, however, gave me a couple of reasons why he thought it best I leave the saw alone.

His main concern was the danger. He said even people who know what they are doing can get badly hurt. Flesh is no match for a spinning chain and trees don’t always fall where we aim. Even a limb can swat a man into Glory Land or send him in the opposite direction.   

The other reason Daddy preferred Julius have control of the chainsaw was the maintenance issue. Chainsaws can be downright ornery. Chuck Ellis, who taught a men’s Sunday School class in Vienna, shared a story years ago that’s stuck with me. Alone in the woods, Chuck was unable to crank his saw. After some frustrating pulls on the cord, he muttered a few harsh words at his nemesis. That’s when Chuck discovered he had company.

“Mr. Chuck,” said the grinning young child of a neighbor, “We’re not supposed to talk like that are we?” Chuck reminded the men in our class that we never know who’s watching, listening, and learning. We’re all teachers, whether we want to be or not. 

Julius was a skilled mechanic and machinist, while I was on the other end of the spectrum. If not for my classmate, Jimmy Summerville, I’d still be in Mr. Ottis Beard’s shop class at Unadilla High School trying to put my lawnmower engine back together. Daddy knew if I broke something Julius would be the one that would have to fix it. He thought that was asking too much and I agreed.

Thanks to Julius the saw was kept in good shape, but he would still check it over closely prior to each use. And before he pulled the crank rope, he’d feel the chain with his index finger. If the chain needed sharpening, he’d patiently put a fine edge on each tooth with a small round file.

About twenty years ago I was in our front yard sawing a felled pecan tree into pieces. I still had a long way to go when my friend, Ronnie Youngblood, pulled over to speak and see if I needed any help. I told him my saw was about to wear me out, that I might have to get Jane to take a turn. It only took him a second to diagnose the problem.

“Your chain needs sharpening,” he said as he headed to his truck to get a file. He probably spent twenty minutes getting every tooth factory sharp, plus making sure I knew how to do it right the next time. “Try it now,” he said with a knowing smile.

It was like slicing butter with a Ginsu knife. As the chain ripped through green pecan wood, satisfaction replaced futility. Sawing with a dull chain was foolish and I knew that. If Ronnie hadn’t stopped, however, I’d have kept pushing that saw instead of guiding it.

Hebrews 4:12 says the word of God is sharper than any two-edged sword. It’s easy for me to look around and spot situations where God needs to cut deeply with both edges. For myself, however, I’m more receptive to His using a small paring knife for a light trimming where I suggest. Our attitude matters about such things as God prefers to work where He’s been invited. 

God’s word doesn’t need any sharpening, but He grants us free will which allows us to dull its effectiveness in our lives. A paring knife is less daunting than a razor-sharp sword, but the sword offers discernment that leads to eternal rewards. The best choice is clear but seldom easy.         

I’ve been using a chain saw lately with some regularity. More than once I’ve found myself bearing down harder than I should because the chain needed sharpening. That’s a foolish choice because I know a saw works best when the chain is sharp. But sometimes I ignore what I know.       

I’ve been a fan of crepe myrtles since childhood. I’m sure there were a few of them scattered around our farming community back then, but the only ones I recall were at my grandmother’s house. Grandmama Hill had several in her back yard that were loaded each summer with colorful blooms.

There’s a lot to like about crepe myrtles. They’re not temperamental nor demanding of our attention. They even seem to thrive when completely ignored. Evidence of their self-sufficiency is found in hedge rows and along roadsides. On rare occasions we can still find them at old homesites, standing guard over an empty house or keeping company with a lonely chimney.

Crepe myrtles are sturdy too, one of the hardest woods there is. If you want to put a chain saw to a test, they are a worthy opponent. A few incisions and the chain will need sharpening or adding to the scrap iron pile. That’s firsthand information and not hearsay.

My guitar-picking buddy Gary Mixon says their wood was used to make ball bearings before metal became the standard. Whoever whittled those bearings probably went through a lot of knives, nicked fingers, and frustration. It wasn’t a good idea, I would think, to sneak up behind an intense carver trying to make quota and tap him on the shoulder.

A wide variety of trees, shrubs, and flowers reward us splendidly for our efforts, but crepe myrtles get my vote for the top spot. They offer exceptional beauty and expect almost nothing in return except space and a little pruning if one is so inclined.

On a July drive down US Highway 41 south of Vienna, I noticed two rows of crepe myrtles in full bloom lining the long driveway of some friends. I’ve driven by their home countless times over the years, but I don’t remember ever seeing such an impressive display of color.

What was especially captivating was the dark red hue of the flowers. I wondered if they were a hybrid variety or maybe a special fertilizer deserved some credit. I made a mental note to ask later but didn’t think about them again for a few days. While working in our yard one afternoon, a smile unexpectedly surfaced when I realized our crepe myrtles were adorned with the same red blossoms.

It reminded me of how easy it is to overlook the beauty and blessings which are already ours to enjoy. Sometimes we get so used to seeing what’s nearby that we take it for granted. Mickey Gilley had a hit song with a memorable line, “I overlooked an orchid while searching for a rose.” He was singing about love, but the same holds true for many things and probably always has.

Twenty or so years ago our son, Seth, was a freshman at Georgia Tech. A couple of his friends from Atlanta came with him to our part of Georgia for a weekend visit. They drove out to my parents’ home in the country late one night and were mesmerized by the quiet darkness. A black canvas sprinkled with a million twinkling stars was something I had unknowingly grown accustomed to. Familiarity had displaced my childhood awe. It took someone who lived under bright city lights to help me see what I had stopped looking for.  

Sometimes it’s tempting to think in terms of what’s lacking in our lives rather than counting the blessings we already have. The Apostle Paul said, “I have learned therefore to be content in whatsoever state I am.” Contentment begins with gratitude, I believe, or at least it’s an essential part.   

When I realized the gorgeous flowers down the road are the same as those growing in our yard, I found it quite amusing. I didn’t laugh out loud but came rather close. Now I will appreciate that beautiful scene even more each time I drive by. Those stunning red blooms are a lovely reminder not to overlook the blessings all around us. Some we can even reach out and touch.

There’s a lot to like about crepe myrtles, and that’s not something I recently decided. I’ve been a fan since childhood.             

It’s no secret that routine maintenance is important for almost everything we use. I’ve had multiple reminders lately, including one that’s a bit unusual. A pile of dirt is a rather unlikely thing to require attention, so I may be stretching the point a bit. Here’s what happened.

Several years ago, we needed some topsoil to fill in holes where we’d had a few trees removed. I ordered two dump-truck loads, one to use immediately and another to have when needed. We had it unloaded in a back corner of our yard where it would be out of the way. I’ve enjoyed the convenience of having my very own dirt pile. Lately, however, my shovel has begun to complain.

What was once a clean earthen mound is now covered in weeds, small trees, and vines. There’s also an impressive entryway made by a family of armadillos who built their dreamhouse in the hill.

None of that is a major challenge to deal with. I’ll use Roundup on whatever is growing and implement a relocation plan for the armadillos as soon as the zoo returns my phone calls. Those are just annoyances, but they reminded me that even dirt sometimes needs maintenance to remain useful.

A more typical example of the importance of maintenance was recently provided by my brother’s lawnmower. It was leaving a streak of uncut grass behind. That little sliver of green indicated the blades needed changing. Not all issues, however, are that easily diagnosed or resolved.

Jane and I had an expensive lesson years ago courtesy of a brown Chevrolet sedan. We had bought a 1978 Caprice from my parents when they got a new car. Our triplets were a few years old at the time, so Jane had her hands full at home. Between work, church, and community involvement I didn’t have much spare time either. Apparently, we were both too busy to check the oil.

My wife called me from Cordele one day to tell me the warning light had come on. She had immediately pulled off the road and turned the engine off. I don’t know about today’s vehicles, but back then when an oil light came on it served as an obituary notice for the motor. Our negligence was rewarded with seventeen hundred reminders of the importance of maintenance.

Checking the oil was something we understood was important, but somehow in the hectic pace of ordinary life it was overlooked. Rather than occasionally spending a few minutes taking care of the car, we had to sell our kids on the thrill of Santa bringing a new engine.

In April of 2020 I published a column titled “Cleaning Out Gutters.” It was about debris that had accumulated over a period of years in the gutters on the back of our home. The trash was out of sight, so I had a flimsy excuse. In early July of this year, we had a hard daytime rain. That same gutter was spilling water over the sides rather than through the drainpipe. The debris wasn’t as deep as before but it was bad enough to cause a problem.

Just about everything we use needs ongoing maintenance. Otherwise, it tends to become less functional and may reach the point where repairs are complicated and costly.

The same is true of faith. Our spiritual health is heavily influenced by our commitment to making it a priority. I don’t have any new ideas to share. It’s basic practices like Bible study, prayer, and being involved with a fellowship of believers. Plus being willing to serve God by serving others.   

There’s not a formula for how much time or effort should be devoted to such aspects, but I believe we know when we fall short. What’s most important is our approach. Attitude is critical when it comes to matters of faith. 2 Corinthians 9:7 says, “God loves a cheerful giver.” That’s not just about money. It’s true for everything.       

When I write about faith, it’s often prompted from knowing there are areas in my life which need improvement. So, I put it on paper with hopes it will inspire me to do better. For others who share that feeling, I invite you to consider what spiritual matters in your life may warrant attention.

Evidence of neglect may be out of sight, like leaves in the gutter. Or it can be as obvious as a streak of uncut grass. The solution is the same. Faith needs routine maintenance, not just the kind measured by time but that which begins in our hearts. If a pile of dirt can lose its usefulness, so can we.

In a recent column I explained how my wife became the proud owner-operator of our first riding mower. That was many years ago, but I still get emotional when I visualize her taking that little 30-inch Snapper on its debut outing. The morning sun illuminated a perfectly blue sky as she tenderly manicured our lawn, carefully trimming patches of grass and weeds to a precise height of 1.75 inches. It was a touching moment to know my days of walking behind a push mower had come to an end.   

Jane says she doesn’t mind mowing our lawn and I’m not about to question her sincerity. I think it bothers her less to cut the grass than to look at the shredded pinecones which are my trademark. Her commitment to picking up pinecones and sticks is much stronger than mine. My inclination is to mulch everything, even litter if it’s biodegradable and in the back yard. This approach is based on my commitment to the environmental benefits of mulching, something I am extremely passionate about.     

My wife has taken good care of our lawn for years and I’m grateful. Recently, however, I’ve discovered something she’s never mentioned and to which I’ve been oblivious. I was unexpectedly exposed to the joys of mowing. Jane had not told me how much fun it can be.  

Our Snapper was in a rehab program at Russ Bowden’s Home for Wayward Mowers, so I borrowed my brother’s John Deere. His knee was hurting from a fall, so I cut the grass at the farm before taking his mower to our house. I sheared about six acres in a single day, five more than my old record.

During those few hours of mowing, I found that zipping around on a zero-turn machine is more sport than work. It combines the thrills and skills of driving a go-cart with riding a horse in a barrel race. One minute I was flying down the straightaway with the wind in my face. The next moment I was spinning around a tree, seeing how close I could get without knocking my hat off.

The joys of mowing have been kept somewhat of a secret by my wife and many others. Their reasons may be valid, but it seems to me that everyone should be invited to the party. That’s why I’ve decided to organize the first ever Southeastern Lawnmower Rodeo. Lawnmower racing has been around for a while, but this takes it a step further where grass is cut in a supervised competition. Fortunately, we have a big yard so the event can be conveniently held right here on U.S. Highway 41 in Dooly County.

Rather than have hundreds of mowers show up the same day, I plan to conduct preliminary individual trials. The careful assessment of each entrant will determine eligibility for the post season clipoffs. A nominal processing fee of ten dollars is required but may be waived for hardship cases. An eight-hour period will be allowed to complete the mowing of our yard between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m.

Judging will be based on overall lawn appearance, time expended, adherence to safety protocols, and other factors as may later be determined. There are no limitations as to how many trial runs an entrant may make. Each ten-dollar fee assures you that only your best score will be used in the rankings.

Trial runs will be limited to one per week during the summer, or two if the grass is growing especially fast. After they are concluded, we’ll narrow the field to the top 40 and schedule group competitions in four divisions of ten each with a wild card possibility.

Grand prize will be a free subscription to joinerscorner.com, 5000 points, and a tee-shirt that says, “I’M A WINNER!” All prizes for top ten finishers are guaranteed to be of inconsequential value.

It may take some time to work out the official rules of the competition. Meanwhile, unscored practice runs can be made through the end of September. No fee is required, and these won’t affect rankings in any way. Just let me know when you can mow.

Mowing can be great fun, but it took years for me to find that out. That’s why I’m dedicating my efforts and offering our yard toward promoting the rodeo. So, call now to reserve a practice time while choice slots are available. Our phone lines are open and the grass is growing. The joys of mowing await.

My father told me a story a long time ago about two farmers who lived in our community during his childhood. Daddy was born in 1923, so the setting would have been in the days when agriculture relied heavily on mules, hand tools, and hard work. I’ve forgotten the names of the men or where they lived, which is probably for the best. I’ll just call the main character Shade because that seems to fit.   

Shade had a stellar reputation for consistency in his lackadaisical approach to farming. The abundant weeds in his crops each year may have bothered him a tad, but not enough to overcome his aversion to sweat. One summer when his cotton was losing a wrestling match with nutgrass, a neighbor was passing by and saw him on his porch. He took a seat in the other rocking chair and made small talk, intrigued at how meticulously Shade was whittling a stick which would serve no purpose.  

The neighbor was hoping to say something inspirational, words of wisdom that might lead his friend to make a better effort in the fields. “Shade,” he finally said as politely as possible, “I’m not trying to tend to your business, but I believe that nutgrass is going to eat you up.”

After a thin shaving of curled cedar fell to the floor, Shade stopped rocking and laid his knife aside. He took his hat off and held it above his eyes as he squinted into the afternoon sun and gazed across his one-horse farm. “You just might be right about that,” he replied with an agreeable nod. “But it’ll have to come up here and get me.”

Whether that’s a true story or not I don’t know. It could have happened, or it may be one of those tales of unknown origin that were commonly shared at country stores. Besides offering groceries, hardware, kerosene, and S.S.S. Tonic, country stores were a primary incubator of homespun humor. Factual or fictional, either way it seems fitting to introduce today’s short primer on weeds.

There are two things about weeds that are troublesome. The first is they compete with what’s being grown. That works the same whether it’s a thousand acres of peanuts or a few tomatoes in the back yard. Weeds compete with desirable plants for everything – nutrients, water, sunshine, and even space. If they go unchecked, they’ll diminish the yield of whatever is being grown. A crop might still be made, but it won’t be what it could have been.

Another major problem with weeds is they go to seed. They love reproducing and some are more prolific than others. Palmer amaranth is the rabbit of the weed world. Pigweed, as it’s commonly known, reportedly produces up to 35,000 seeds per plant. That’s higher than even Jethro Bodine can cipher, so I won’t attempt to verify the data. If you take a close look at a mature pigweed, however, that seems about right.

Obviously, it’s critical to keep weeds out of fields and gardens in order to produce the best crop possible. But what about the weeds in our spiritual gardens? Although we understand they hinder us from producing the fruits of a vibrant faith, they are easily ignored. They compete with God for space in our hearts and lives, and like those in the plant world they spread if we don’t get rid of them. Spiritual weeds love company so much that one often opens the door for another. King David, for example, had a fling with Bathsheba then covered it up by having her husband, Uriah, killed. (2 Samuel 11)

Weeds in our spiritual gardens come in all shapes and sizes and a rainbow of colors. Some are on display for all to see while others are hidden, unknown we think, except to God. And sometimes we try to convince ourselves that He won’t take notice.

We all have some weeds to deal with, yet we tend to think the worst ones are those of someone else. The bar is set too low when we compare our gardens with those of friends or the norms of society. Those standards, however, are gaining momentum as biblical guidance loses favor.

Many times I’ve behaved like Shade and had a lack of concern about the weeds in my spiritual garden. I’ve settled for fruits which looked okay to the world perhaps, but didn’t reflect my best efforts. My prayer today is simply that I’ll do better. I’m not sure what the results will be, but here’s what I do know. It’s time to stop whittling and get off the porch.