Dirty hands, clean heart

“Fools fold their hands and ruin themselves.” Ecclesiastes 4:5 NIV

My dad had working hands. They were rough and hard, callused from a lifetime of work. He started on a farm and never had a job that did not include manual labor. I remember the sound of him rubbing my mom’s back. I know that wounds weird, but she had some shirts that were some kind of polyester. When he rubbed his hand across her shoulder the material would sometimes snag on his bare hand. I can still hear that scratching sound.

I have had manual labor jobs before, just not in a while. I sell insurance and real estate. My hands do not look anything like his. My manual work is in my yard. We have a nice yard with a lot of flowers and a garden. Homegrown tomatoes and cucumbers are just better. It is a little work, but it is good work. The only problem is that my old out of shape body just does not like it when I am crawling around on my hands and knees. It can take two days to recover from one.

This year my wife gave me the bright idea to use a raised garden. She found one on Pinterest and showed me. She was thinking too small. One day I drove past a new playground being built in Hays. When I say “playground” it is a great disservice to the project underway. Freaking amazing is a better phrase. It has zip lines. It will have a splash pad. It is one of the best playgrounds I have ever seen. Private groups raised money for it and you just have to congratulate them. It is quite an accomplishment.

As I was driving, I noticed the pallets they had laying around on that site. They were long and looked perfect. I also noticed a sign that said “Free wood” in front of them. Boom. There was my raised garden. Keep in mind some rather large equipment had been shipped on them. They were 24 feet long and heavy. I called my brother and we got to work. He is a horse and it was still about all we could do to load one, so we took three - two for tables and one for table legs and bracing (there were probably 15 or 20 stacked there).

Over the past week I have raised them up and cut holes for buckets. The result is a pretty dang cool garden that I can now work on standing straight up. I have a cucumber and cantaloupe table with cages for the vines. Tomato plants sit among flowers to make it all look beautiful. Vegetables will grow at eye level. I call it the green mile.

I have worked on it for about a week. During that time, I have completely shut out all the noise of the day – every day. I have not watched depressing news coverage. I have not spent much money, just some buckets and screws. I noticed something yesterday as well. My hands were a little dirty even after I washed them. I have some calluses and scrapes.

God gave Adam a job to tend the garden – in paradise. I imagine the vegetables were already perfect, but the job had a purpose. If you are on your hands and knees working in the dirt, God can speak in the silence. The bible does not really mention God yelling to get our attention. It mentions His still small voice. If we are quiet, we can hear Him better.

The garden made Adam available to listen. God gave all of us either a job that pays money or one that doesn’t. I need to spend more time in mine and less time trying to figure out the plan. I have noticed that in general if my hands are dirty, whether I am working in the yard or helping anyone do anything, my heart stays cleaner. I do not worry about the business of life or work or anything else. Usually if I am worried about the administrative issues of life, I occupy myself with things that are not my job anyway. If my hands are getting dirty, my mind is more open. The complications are pushed out by the simple.

What do you like to do?

How often do you set aside time to shut out the noise the world uses to distract you?

Challenge: The verse above says “fools fold their hands and ruin themselves.” Let’s get our hands dirty. If you don’t like to garden, then get your hands and mind into fresh quiet air and go for a walk. Help a friend or a total stranger. Listen as God whispers.

Rick Claiborn