From Field to Fairway

My neighborhood is a former cow pasture. A few homes have backyards with trees and shade. We do not. Instead we have a near-acre lot and not a single tree, save for those lining the back of the property.

And because I swing toward the ungrateful end of the spectrum, I have long lamented the treeless field known as my backyard.

How will we ever afford to properly landscape? What in the world are we going to do with all this? It takes forever to mow. I wish we had a lot like _______.

I envisioned clusters of oaks and hydrangeas, surrounding a grandiose swing-set-tree-house thing. Maybe a DIY water-feature outlined with flag-stone. An in-ground pool...because it is hot here for so long and a girl can dream. I have long been discontent with the field, too much resembling its former cow-pasture existence.

Southern Living will mess you up like this.

But something happened over the summer that shook the discontent right out of me.

Five-year-old Brownie took up golf.

And by "took up" I mean hours-a-day of driving, chipping, and putting, even in the 100-degree Southern heat and humidity. Last week I rolled out of bed only to find him out there in the field, club in hand, ankles slathered with the wet grass his sneakers had christened before 7:30. He forgets to eat, forgets to drink, forgets time itself out there in that field.

Conversations are now peppered with words like rough, par, 7-iron, eagle, and chipping wedge. He talks about Tiger, Phil, and Lucas as if they're the neighbor kids. He dreams of being great like them.

...................................

Daddy, how many years has Tiger Woods been practicing?

Buddy, you need to go to sleep.

But how many years?

Oh, about 25. (just throwing out a number)

Pause.

Then I'm gonna practice 26.

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And so, the field has become a par 3. The Man mowed a fairway and green, topping off the design with a regulation cup and flag that cost $20, pretty cheap by landscaping standards.

It's not what I'd envisioned for my lot. But my vision is rarely in keeping with His, the One who created a little boy with brown, curly hair and a passion for golf. A boy who could sure use a wide-open space for hours every day to hone his skills.

Too often, my vision is impaired. My narrowly-focused eyes don't see the gift I'm smack in the middle of.

I watch the boy all day long through the back-of-the-house windows, his resolve inspiring...

And I'm more grateful than ever for a God who saves me from what I think I want.*

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*Last sentence paraphrased from an article by Kathryn Donovan Wiegand, "Childrearing Interlude" in Finding God at Harvard. "Thank God, who saves us from what we think we want" are Wiegand's words...they have become an oft-used mantra for me.