Pastor's Pen for April 2011

Ahh!  Spring has arrived and the snow is finally GONE, hopefully for good until next winter, BUT now we have to begin contending with all the lawn work.  Picking up branches, twigs, and mowing the grass awaits us for the next five months.  The worse is of course mowing the grass.  Certainly, now as bad as digging out after a foot of snow, but that only happens every once in a while.  The grass however is relentless in its growth, especially after some heavy rains.  It won't be so bad if West Mifflin wasn't so hilly, but because it is, this is one chore I don't imagine that I will ever be able to hand over to my kids, unless of course they get as big as me.  My weight is oftentimes the only counter-balance I have when I'm cutting the lawn across the slope of the yard.  One summer while I was attending the Virginia Military Institute, I worked on the Grounds Crew, which meant that I spent most of the summer mowing grass.  During that time, I wrote a poem "Men of Grass."  The poem, long forgotten in its exact words, centered around how the grass that I was continually cutting was like the inhabitants of the world.  The metaphor compared our accomplishments, and even our very existence, as something very limited, which could instantly be cut off or cut down by forces beyond our control or power to influence.  Of course, this was before I became a Christian, and probably had a lot to do with me being very tired of mowing grass, thereby allowing my imagination to run wild, but that poem and that sentiment has stayed with me ever since.  So, every spring and summer as I am quietly bemoaning the amount of time I will have to spend on the tractor, I recall that poem, and think again to myself how much in common we, as inhabitants of this world, past, present, and future, have in common with the very grass that grows, and which I am determined and bend on cutting down.

Pastor's Pen for March 2011

Who was happy to hear that Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this month.  I find it strange to think that seasonal depression, the doldrums, and just being plain and sick of the snow and ice would all depend upon an oversize rodent.  If Phil lived anywhere but Punxsutawney, he would be trapped (humanely) and relocated by most, if not all, of the folks who have lawns they don't want messed up by groundhogs.  Yet, Phil has the gravitas necessary to demand respect for his weather related prognostications.  Yet, as overjoyed as I am personally to know that regardless of what the Weather Channel or the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) may say, spring is coming early.