Driving God's Tractor

It's funny to think that I have to beg, threaten and plead to get my soon-to-be-fourteen-year-old stepson to mow the lawn. When I was ten, I mowed the lawn where my father worked, for free—several acres at least—and considered it a favor that they let me do it.



Carl was a seminary student, and also the groundskeeper for a time, at Biblical Theological Seminary. And for a short time, my boss. Biblical was exactly one block away from our house, and it was not only the reason we lived in the house we did, but why we lived in Pennsylvania in the first place. We moved from Oklahoma so my father could take a job as the Director of Development, basically a one-man ad agency/public relations firm/fundraising/recruting office and mail house. His duties encompassed any and all correspondence with the outside world from marketing the seminary to prospective studnets, to mailing out fundraising newsletters. He designed, wrote, photographed, layed out and printed everything from business cards to invitations, annual reports and ads. His domain was a little side building about fifty feet away from the main building and he walked to work each day, even in the rain.

Direcly behind his office was the groundskeeper's shed. Carl's office, if you will. As I said, Carl was a student there, and in return for some sort of break on tuition, he was the head groundskeeper. I assume that he was in charge of other operational duties in addition to the landscaping, but for a few short summers, I was his assistant. The seminary owned a John Deere riding mower and since this was the closest thing to driving a car I could find, I jumped at the chance to mow the lawn. I can't even imagine the liability issues you'd have today if you wanted to let a ten-year-old mow several acres of your lawn, I don't care if you are a non-profit.

This was before Sony introduced the walkman and forever changed lawnmowing as we know it, so for the several hours that it took to mow the lawn, I amused myself by singing popular songs I knew from the radio, as well as songs I made up as I rode along. I daydreamed and I watched the ground pass beneath me.



Carl was an interesting guy. Eventually, he moved off campus to a small cottage a few doors up from the seminary, and I used to stop by and see him. He made his own birch beer—some of which would occasionally blow up—shot rabbits with a bow and arrow in his back yard, and always had time to talk to me. Years later, he was living with an Amish family in Lancaster, and they allowed a bicycle touring group I was with to stay on the farm for the night. They fed us homemade ice cream and, of course, homemade birch beer. I don't know how they made it, but I swear I got drunk of that birch beer.

I have no idea of Carl's current whereabouts, but when I think back to that time, I'm amazed by his patience with me. I've often wondered if he married and had kids of his own. I'm sure he would have made a good father. I can't in my wildest dreams imagine entrusting a tractor to a ten-year-old boy for the day. I have a hard time watching my stepson mow the lawn. And it's nearly impossible to do so without a few comments and corrections. Carl had a big beard at the time, and had a mellow way about him that I found soothing. He never seemed to get worked up about anything, even when I would run over tree roots and ding the mower blade. I don't ever remember anything from him but gratitude that I had worked hard.

There are a few people in my life that have served as reminders for how easy it is to take things slower, especially when dealing with children. To listen more than talk. To allow more than you think you should. To leave room for mistakes, as opposed to stepping in at the first sign of trouble. Carl was different than I am most of the time. He was more interested in letting me help, than in having a well mown lawn.

I'll have to remember to think of Carl the next time one of my kids is helping out. What would he have done?