When anyone asks me what we grow on our farm, it feels rather wimpy to answer, “Well, we have a little vegetable garden.”
We moved to the hinterlands more than two years ago, but we don’t have the time or know-how to be real farmers yet. Maybe when my husband retires. Until then, our fields will likely just be nice to look at, a pain to mow, and good for my golf game.
Did I say golf? Oh yes, I did, because I recently turned one of our clumpy-grassed fields into my very own private driving range.
You won’t see amber waves of grain or serenely grazing cows on our property, but you might step on a few golf balls.
My driving range idea was, I think, quite inspired and very timely, as I’m currently between shoulder surgeries and can kind of, sort of, swing a golf club. It hurts like the dickens, but I can do it if I’m willing to swallow my pride and swing like a Sun City octogenarian.
Not that I’ve ever been a good golfer, mind you. I’d actually have to get better to be bad. But I’m currently playing even worse than usual after being sidelined for more than a year.
The inspiration to turn a field into a driving range came a few weeks ago when I played nine holes on a local course. It was beyond ugly, but the friend playing with me did her best to put a good spin on things.
“Isn’t this weather great?” she’d say after one of us hit a terrible shot.
“It’s like I’ve never played this game in my life,” I’d gripe.
“I’m just glad we can be out here,” she’d say.
“I am a total spaz,” I’d grumble.
“Good shot,” she’d say, even when it clearly wasn’t.
“How, after all these years, can I still completely whiff the ball?” I’d whine.
I wasn’t ungrateful for the blessing of finally getting to play golf again. I just couldn’t ignore how badly I was playing it. For me, the fun of sports isn’t just in playing them; it’s also in trying to play them well.
I went home that day determined to practice, and that’s how our pasture became my driving range.
My husband thinks I’m sometimes excessively “driven” about things like this. That’s because he’s naturally laid back—one step up from comatose, I sometimes say. Joe often tells me to settle down and I often want to light a fire under his … feet.
Anyway, I contend that being “driven” can sometimes be a very good thing. It’s what caused me, as a kid, to relentlessly beat tennis balls against brick walls for hours, and tennis eventually opened many wonderful doors for me. More importantly, it made me want to be an “all-in” follower of Jesus Christ when I yielded my life to Him in college.
I sure haven’t done that perfectly, but I’ve tried to do it passionately.
Bible verses, like this one in Revelation 3, convince me it’s not a good idea to be too passive when it comes to our relationship with God: “‘… I wish that you were cold or hot. So because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of My mouth.’”
I don’t know what being spit out of God’s mouth would be like, but I know I don’t want to find out.
I get that not everyone is driven to go out in a pasture to hit golf balls, and that’s fine. But for those of us who call ourselves Christians, we should be driven to know and obey the One we claim to love and follow.
If He’s worthy at all, He’s worthy of all.