By Sandra Bost
April 5th marked Momma’s second Heavenly birthday, and as another Mother’s Day approaches, I find myself standing at the intersection of loss and legacy–and really tall weeds that need to be mown.
It is mowing season again, a time when the hum of the engine and the scent of fresh-cut grass feel like a conversation Momma and I are still having. To some, mowing is a chore; to Momma, it was a sanctuary of prayer and song. She spent hours of “quiet time” on her John Deere, leaving a trail of laughter that even the deepest loss couldn’t dim–a legacy of joy, of sorts.
That legacy felt especially present this week as I climbed back onto the rain-soaked, yellow seat of Momma’s infamous mower. Though I was tackling fresh weeds, my mind drifted back to an incident from last year–mostly because my pants were drenched before I even got the engine cranked.
After moving to their full-time RV park, Momma convinced the owner to trade mowing for rent, eventually persuading Daddy that a zero-turn was the ultimate “money-saving” investment. Her “savings” were often offset by the cost of chopped hoses, bent decks, broken valves, and a trail of shrubs that would simply never bloom again.
If I told you that she called weekly to tell me about how she had to get the park owner to pull her out of a ditch or have Daddy fix a “broken something-or-other,” it would not be an exageration. She became my “happy hazard,” and we shared many laughs (and a few scares) over her grass-cutting capers.
Nearly a year ago, I was midway through my mowing job when I realized I was following in her footsteps: on Momma’s faithful lawn mower, mowing for rent, and truly enjoying myself. It was a very full-circle moment. As I neared the end of my final lap, I marveled at the fact that I had not fallen into a single ditch or hit a single fixed object. Feeling pretty proud, I headed back toward our motorhome to park.
That is when the day took a turn.
Noticing some high grass around our porch area I had the thought, “I’ll just make a couple of quick passes to clean that up.” The first pass was easy peasy. The second proved to be problematic. As I was rounding the front of the rig, the right steering arm jerked, catapulting me forward, positioning the deck of the mower just underneath the RV. Admittedly, I panicked just a little, causing all of the confidence and skill from the previous 2 and a half hour, eventless mowing session to leave my body.
Suddenly, I couldn’t even remember which steering arm to push (or was it pull) and I ended up with the back left tire headed straight toward the water main. Oblivious to the fact that the tire had caught the water filter connected to the faucet, I pushed the steering arms forward, breaking the faucet head clean off of the yard hydrant. It was not until the water came spewing out like Old Faithful that I realized what I had done. I busted out laughing and turned off the water before my pants were completely soaked. I couldn’t help but think about my funny–joy filled–momma.
Standing there in my wet pants, staring at the geyser I’d created, I realized that I hadn’t just inherited Momma’s mower or her habit of hitting things–I had inherited her perspective. In that moment, the frustration of a broken pipe was completely drowned out by the echo of her laughter. It reminded me of Proverbs 17:22: “A cheerful heart is good medicine; but a crushed spirit dries up the bones” (NIV).
Momma’s legacy was in the divine ability she had to find the “funny” in the middle of a mess. She taught me that joy isn’t a feeling we wait for–it’s a heritage we tend, row by crooked row. As I turned off the water and looked at the sunset over the orchard, I could almost hear my “happy hazard” laughing with me over my wet pants.
This week, when life throws you a “broken hydrant” or your best-laid plans end up in a muddy ditch, I challenge you to pause before you react. Ask yourself: “How can I turn this splash of frustration into a fountain of praise?” Choose to leave your own legacy of Joy, and cheer your heart with a good, hearty, Momma-style belly laugh.
It’s good medicine.
Connect with Bost on social media platforms by searching for “Sandra Mullins Bost.”
