For four years I was an Assemblies of God minister and a monk with the Brothers and Sisters of Charity. This blog is an excerpt from my yet-to-be-released book about my experiences, taken from the chapter on Confession. Previously posted in Dec., 2008.
It wasn’t really a bad weed eater, as weed eaters go. Built by a well-known and trusted company, this weed eater had served the community well over the years, faithfully trimming grass and enabling us to maintain the beautiful land nestled in the magnificent Ozark Mountains known as the Little Portion Hermitage. However, on this particular morning the weed eater must have gotten up on the wrong side of the garage, for it absolutely refused to start.
Try as I might, I could not get the weed eater to start. Does it have gas? Check. Is the spark plug okay? Check. Well, that’s as far as my small engine talents can take me. So, let’s pull on the rope some more. Once more. One more time. Pull again. Pull. Pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull. About the time I started to feel the blister come up on my finger from jerking on the rope, I’d had enough. I laid hands upon it (in the name of Jesus, of course) and removed the offending member from my presence.
I didn’t really believe that a long flight out the garage door would help the obstinate weed eater start. But for that brief, wonderful moment, the sight of the obnoxious, obviously UNSAVED weed eater flying helplessly (if unrepentantly) across the driveway and into the shrubs by the common center made me feel better. Walking out into the bright sun to retrieve the varmint, I bought it back into the garage and tried it once again. I was right. It still didn’t start.