A Man, A Mower, and a Meadow of Gratitude
The grass has grown tall here at True North. Prairie-high and waving in the summer breeze, it’s the kind of grass that dares you to tame it. It also gives you quite the fright with the hot weather and dry winds. Fire danger is a real and present threat here. And try as I might, hand mowing 22.5 acres is a fool’s game. I’ve been that fool, only able to hand mow a few acres at a time.
Last week, something beautiful happened. A bright yellow riding lawn mower arrived in a crate, and with it came a childlike giddiness that settled over all of us. The kind that feels like Christmas morning and your birthday; mixed together. Because this wasn’t just a mower. Not really. It was hope wrapped in steel and rubber. It was the answer to prayers whispered over hospital beds and long nights. It was our dad quietly returning to the driver’s seat, not of a car this time, but of something that still carried him forward, still gave him wind in his face, purpose in his hands, and a grin so big I am pretty sure it would be visible from space.
What many of you may not know is that my dad has walked to the edge of goodbye twice in the last twenty years. Twice, we found ourselves holding our breath in the quiet rooms of hospice. And twice, we fell to our knees, hearts breaking, voices trembling, pleading with God for more time. A daughter’s prayer, raw and desperate: Please, I still need my dad. And somehow, both times, heaven heard us. Both times, God gave us a little more time. Since then, every sunrise feels like a miracle, every sunset a grace note. We don’t take a single one for granted.
My dad, Papa to the adults and little ones, has several health issues, one of which has taken away his ability to see well, which means he cannot drive. That might sound small in the grand scheme of things, but it was a quiet heartbreak for him. And if you’ve ever watched someone you love lose something they love, you’ll understand why it broke the heart of the rest of us, too. This is the man who taught me to love long car rides, not for the destination, but for the windows-down, the music, how time slows on winding roads, and the way you can come up with answers to life's questions that had previously seemed impossible to answer. He’s the man who once had Corvettes rumbling in the driveway and bugs on the windshield. Watching him give up driving wasn’t just sad, it was the end of an era.
But here’s the thing about grit, it always finds new ways to keep rolling.And this week, he found it again in that mower. He’s out there right now, gliding through the tall grass with the sun shade up so that he doesn't sunburn and the biggest grin you’ve ever seen. We all sat back and watched him mow, wiping away tears we pretended were from the wind and dust. It wasn’t just a chore getting done, it was joy. It was a memory. It was a miracle in motion.
Some of my kids’ most cherished memories are riding with Papa on his old mower, hands on the wheel, laughing through the turns. And now, after so much heartbreak and so many hard chapters, they’re watching their Papa drive again. And in Ashlin's case she is watching her boys watch her Papa on the mower knowing that they too will have those sweet memories to hold on to in the years to come.
And me? I’m standing there, watching the man I love and admire cut gentle paths through the wild grass, one steady row at a time. Each pass of the mower feels like a quiet sermon, reminding me that life will change, and sometimes the things we once did with ease ask more of us as time goes on. But that doesn’t mean we give up. It just means we adapt. We dig a little deeper, get a little braver, and find a new way forward. Because the love for the thing, the joy, the meaning, it’s still there. It just asks for a different shape.
Sometimes gratitude looks like a prayer answered.
Sometimes it sounds like the hum of a mower.
And sometimes it’s just sitting in the shade with your family, watching the grass fall and love rise.
Signing off with a full heart,
Michelle (aka Gigi)