I went out to mow the lawn the other morning, right before Wes left for work.
I’ve been doing our lawn for two years. The girls are in school, and I have the time. And because I do it, Wes doesn’t have to, allowing him to spend what little free time he does get with the rest of us, relaxing and enjoying life.
I rarely even start the job when he’s still home, but I wanted to get it done before it started raining. So I went out, like I always do, and tried to start the mower.
Running marathons does absolutely nothing for arm muscle strength (believe it or not), leaving the strength in my arms equivalent to that of a toddler’s. (Maybe better than that. But not much.) Starting the mower is never easy for me because of this, but I was having more trouble than normal.
And it was even worse because Wes was standing there watching me.
“You need help?,” he asked.
“You know,” I said, standing with my hand on my hip and a frown on my face, “I manage to get this done every week without you standing over me like this.”
“Just offering to help,” he said.
“I’ve got it,” I muttered, as I continued to try and start the stupid mower with my stupid muscles so I could mow the stupid lawn —
“You sure I can’t help?,” he asked, flexing his triathlete muscles at me, practically begging me to reach out, grab him, and strangle him to death. (I refrained, y’all. Because I have all the self control in the world.)
“You know what?,” I said, throwing my hands into the air. “Give it your best, Pastor.”
And so he did. He walked smugly over to the mower, glanced back at me, then bent down to unscrew the gas cap. He nodded at it and said, “Well, there’s your problem.”
I looked over to see what he was seeing…
Empty. Completely empty.
He looked at me. I looked at him.
“I think you need to go away now,” I said.
Clearly, he woke up before I did, went out to the garage, and siphoned off all the gas so that this would happen. Never mind the fact that I should have checked the gas tank before I did anything else. This was ALL Wes! (I know it doesn’t make sense. Just pretend like it does.)
I’m onto your devious plotting, Pastor. Keeping my eye on you…