Hammer Time

Mama Bea and Daddy Freeman had a huge garden every summer. All kinds of vegetables were raised, picked, and then pickled, frozen or canned, which is a funny way to say they were put in jars. They were both hard workers and I’ll always believe that their work ethic kept them healthy. That said, when the heat of mid-summer came, despite their predisposition to hard work, they tended to rest around noon for a couple of hours or so. Lunch, a bottle of coke, As the World Turns and a nap in the recliners helped to rejuvenate them for the afternoon of work.

I vividly remember one particular day that Daddy Freeman’s mid-day siesta was stretching a bit long. “Freeman, the garden needs to be tilled.” No response. “Freeman!” That was enough and out of the chair he went. Now, I wouldn’t say that Mama Bea wore the pants in the family but she definitely washed, starched and ironed them and Daddy Freeman knew if he didn’t get going there wouldn’t be any pants for anyone to wear. So, up and out of the recliner went Daddy Freeman down to the garden. With me trailing a safe 5 steps behind, I could hear something along the lines of, “That woman #%&** can’t rest *+=#%^ work is all @!!!!&%.”

The tiller was an old machine that was held together with bailing wire and Daddy Freeman’s sweat and spit. (Baling wire is what bales of hay used to be bound with.) He checked the gas, set the choke and gave the old gal a strong pull to start the engine. Cough. Spit. Chug. He pulled again … and again … and again. Nothing. Daddy Freeman went up to where he kept his tools which were in the trunk of something like a 1932 Pontiac that had found its final resting place next to the smokehouse which was next to the chicken house. Back he came. He pulled out the spark plug and cleaned it, adjusted some screws that I’m sure were important and pulled the starter rope again … and again … and again. Mama Bea’s name was then invoked with less than romantic tones and then he reached for it. The “it” was his hammer. I found this a bit unusual and wondered what he was going to do. I found out. He took that hammer, raised it high over his head and “Wham! Wham! Wham!” Right on top of the tiller the hammer found its mark. I took a step back wondering what would happen if I didn’t start when Daddy Freeman wanted me to. He then grabbed the rope, pulled hard and the tiller realizing it was over-matched started right up.

Aren’t we glad that God doesn’t have a hammer? Some would argue that. Some would say that bad things happen to us because God wants to get our attention. Some would say that God punishes us for our misdeeds and allows our car to run into a tree or for our bodies to succumb to some horrible disease. Surely God is not vindictive. Surely God does not return evil for evil. Surely God is different than our models of justice.

God is good and desires our good. God loves us and does not desire that any be punished but that all live life joyously and in the abundance of His grace. Bad things happen. There is no doubt about that and some of those bad things are natural consequences to our bad choices. Some just happen. But God is not the initiator of those bad things nor does he simply allow them. God does what God can, for us, for His creation, for His kingdom. We are not tillers that just need a little corrosion knocked off of us. We are the beloved, God’s good creation, chosen, redeemed, Spirit-filled, the body of Christ and God loves us. Hammer time? Not with God.

Grace. Only grace. Always grace.