The Pastor’s Piece, Pastor Kevin Cernek, FCFI Chaplain

FCFI

July 27, 2025

When I was a kid, one of the places we lived was at the end of a mile-long dead-end driveway. Not many people came down that lane – just the milk man, the Schwan’s Ice Cream guy, or relatives coming to visit. We were farm kids who knew how to work, but we also knew how to mix work and play.

For example, my dad and grandpa made hay on one of my uncle’s farms a few miles away. This uncle had a motorcycle he kept in a shed, and he’d only bring it out once a year when we were there making hay. There were a bunch of us brothers, and in between loads of hay, we’d take turns riding that motorcycle around the field. In my mind, I can still picture my uncle – a rather stocky man – showing us the ins and outs of how to ride it. Then I see him taking it around the field on a test run, grinning the whole time. He was so happy to see how much joy it brought us kids, knowing we were getting such a thrill out of something he’d tucked away years ago.

Later on, we had a little Sears 50cc bike that we used to fetch the cows from the pasture every morning and night. Then, when we were older, my brothers had a couple of Kawasaki 400 street bikes that we took everywhere.

Yard work was a different story. With Dad busy keeping the dairy farm running and Mom juggling the day-to-day with a bunch of kids, mowing the lawn didn’t exactly top the priority list. But eventually, the grass would get long enough that something had to be done. Since our front yard doubled as our baseball field, us kids took it upon ourselves to mow it when we could. The grass always seemed to grow faster than we could keep up with.

Back then, all we had was a push mower – no self-propelled models yet. It wasn’t easy. Often, it took two of us to push it through the tall grass, one on each side with one hand on the top of the handle, and the other near the bottom brace by the mower deck. It was loud, heavy, and looking back, probably a little dangerous. But somehow, we never got hurt, and we always managed to keep the lawn – our baseball field – looking halfway decent. That field was our motivation.

Eventually, Dad bought a Bolens riding mower. It had a front-mounted deck, engine in the back, and it steered by pivoting in the middle. That was a big upgrade.

These days, I only have one lawn to mow, but it’s a demanding one. My mower is 18 years old and, up until recently, it’s held up pretty well. But the other day, a six-inch piece of throttle linkage between the throttle assembly and the governor popped off while I was mowing. I searched the grass over and over but couldn’t find it. And without it, the mower wouldn’t run.

I finally found a replacement part online and ordered it – estimated delivery: 3 to 5 business days. At the rate the grass has been growing lately, it’ll be a jungle by then. So I took a closer look at the engine, said a prayer, and started experimenting. I ended up tying together ten flat washers with a piece of string and dangling them from the spring-loaded throttle assembly. Amazingly, it works. I’m back in business – for now. I just can’t idle it down unless I get off the mower and do it by hand.

You may have read this poem before. It’s fitting for this time of year.

The Lawn Ritual (As told by an alien observer – Author Unknown)

I came from a planet both distant and wide,

To study Earth beings and where they take pride.

I hovered my ship over homes in a row,

And what I observed – well … you need to know.

They fertilize their grass to make it grow fast,

Then groan at the lawn when it’s tall and too vast.

They drag out a beast with a blade and a roar,

Then mow it all down ’til it grows back once more.

They scoop up the clippings and bag them with care,

And toss them away like loose strands of hair.

They grumble and sigh and collapse in a chair.

“Why do I do this? It leads me nowhere!”

But then, like clockwork, the next week they begin,

The cycle repeats with a sweat-covered grin.

They spend all this effort to fight growing grass.

Why not just let it be wild and let it pass?

I logged the report with a puzzled remark:

“These creatures have rituals that are oddly bizarre.

They toil and they sweat with no prize in sight.

For grass that regrows by the following night.”

So now we avoid that green-covered sphere,

They treat it like art, though the purpose is unclear.

If this is their hobby, we’ll leave them alone.

Just don’t ask me to explain it to those back at home.

The End

“I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil – this is the gift of God,” (Ecclesiastes 3:12–13).