It’s fall in the Midwest and yes, the weather is hot then cool, dry then wet and humidity looms somewhere between the stages of the thermometer. Predictable is not found here. And yet, things aren’t always unpredictable either.

As I strolled outside this morning near the barn, I noticed my husband’s John Deere. He faithfully uses this hard working piece of machinery every week. Barely getting a break all spring, summer and early fall this mower keeps up with the grass as it grows at a rate faster than a smooth move of a teenage boy. The hum of this machine is getting louder as it grows older; the paint is chipping and rusty red spots appear here and there. As break downs become more common, it may sit for a few days waiting to be fixed. But, one little spot caught my eye as I gazed at the big, bad boy.

A tuft of tender grass peeked through an angled area atop the mower blades. The flat housing was laden with dead grass from months of cuttings, but amidst all that death was fresh, green life. Nothing should grow there, it was not meant for growth. It was meant for protection from the whirring blades as they spin underneath. But despite what the housing was meant to do, there was a little spot of lush, tender life.

And what if the dash of a forest could speak? What would it say? “Darn the world” for being placed in such a precarious position. Angry, it would stomp and snort how life wasn’t fair because it grew in a restricted, unattractive, unwanted place–only to be swept way by a spray from the hose or the swish of a handbroom. Or, why would such tragedy befall the little jungle when it was peacefully minding it’s own business? The petty little nuisance of a clump was doing it’s own thing, but someday soon the dead grass underneath would dry out again and the plot of turf would lose the base it took root upon. The destiny of the happy and healthy green cluster was doomed. The clump would soon die one way or another.

If asked if it was worth it, would the tiny forest complain of its existence? I think not. Would the happy splotch of green blades wilt if pushed to think of the future it faced? I think not again. I dare say the collection of germinated seeds would be thrilled that they were able to make it in such dire circumstances. The clod would lean over in the wind thanking it for the afternoon stretch, and life given to the fledgling blades would be a life well lived as long as it suited the purpose it was intended to fulfill.

And what about us? What about me? Sometimes it seems like my little cluster of life is wilting and getting smaller and smaller and my existence is not of value. Why do hardships and drama fill some of my days robbing me of the joyous moments meant to pepper my God-given identity? Am I the inverse of those simple blades of grass growing to whatever they were meant to grow?

Psalm 90;12 says, “Teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” In numbering our days, seeing the beauty of the moments we have, we gain wisdom into our hearts. At times I can hear myself moan about a situation and the brevity of pleasure I will receive from it. I do not realize the pleasure afforded to me, in whatever measure it is given, is still pleasure…even if I desire more. By counting the days I have on this earth to bless others and to make a difference for Christ, it gives me a greater, God-centric perspective of the whole of the breadth of my life.