What Are the Chances?

We very rarely order pizza. For one thing, it’s time-consuming to have to go pick it up (giving directions to our house is a little sticky); and for another, well, you have to pay for it.

 

 

But we did order pizza a couple of nights ago. And then we loaded everyone into the van, trudging through the knee-deep grass, and went to go pick it up.

 

 

Remember that mower with the starter that we haven’t quite figure out how to, er, start? It wasn’t such a big deal at first. The yard was kind of pretty with the buttercups and dandelions giving it a sort of “Secret Garden” look. We told the kids to play in the back “field.” And when they complained of being itchy every time they played outside, we just reminded them to change into long pants before they went out. But when we were flossing grass seeds out of their teeth, we decided it was pretty much time to do something about the mower.

 

 

Now my husband is no dummy about mechanics. He can figure anything out involving a screwdriver. But the way the mower is set up, with safety guards everywhere, this was more than he could fix with a screwdriver. He found some of his auto-savvy acquaintances and the answer was unanimous: you need to take it to a professional.

 

 

 

No big deal. Except that this is scrunch time for him (4 papers – 10 to 20 pages each – and a sermon due by Friday!). And we don’t have a truck. So “taking it to a professional” would involve borrowing a truck, finding time to pick up the truck, finding time to load the mower, finding time to take it to someone who had the time to look at it, finding time to unload the mower, etc. And of course, you have to pay for it. Meanwhile, the kids are taking walkie-talkies outside with them so when they get lost in our jungle of a yard I can direct their steps from an upstairs window.

 

So fast-forward (or rewind!) to our going to pick up the pizza. He went inside the pizza parlor, picked up our buy-one-get-one-free order of one large cheese and one large Canadian bacon and mushroom, and turned around to go out the door. A neon green flyer caught his attention. On it were various Christian symbols and the words “LAWN SERVICE AND MOWER REPAIR” with a telephone number.

 

 

Yesterday, he called the number, and the man said he could be out to look at the mower in a half hour. When my husband gave him the (sticky) directions, the man surprisingly said he was familiar with the area. Well, it turns out he was SO familiar that he used to live in the very house we live in, about ten years ago. He came out with his fifteen year-old son, and he explained that the hole in the tree in the back yard was from a tornado that hit (I didn’t need to know that!) and knocked a big branch onto his dog’s house. And he is the man who built the makeshift shed out back.

 

 

He looked at the mower, determined that it was not something that he could fix right there, and loaded it up on his trailer. So we got the picking up the truck, loading the mower, finding someone to fix the mower, and unloading the mower all taken care of. And what about the paying for it? His rates are unbeatable: pay for parts and donate whatever you feel the labor was worth.

 

 

And when he saw our children attempting to picnic on the blanket that wouldn’t lie flat because of all the tall grass under it, he and his son mowed a swath so that they can make it to the swing and have a place to picnic until we get our mower back.

 

 

I can’t help but think know that these things are more than just coincidence and that the One Whose eye is on the sparrow is the One Who watches me. Pizza, anyone?

 

I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free,
For His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches me.