My boys and I spent a hot, humid, Georgia morning in our yard trimming, pruning, and cutting back shrubs and other landscaping that had become overgrown in the searing heat the last few weeks. All this for Father’s Day. David has been working tirelessly, and I didn’t want him to come home and be reminded of all the yard work needing to be done.
Pruning bushes is an art, one I don’t think I’ve mastered. When we were done the poor shrubs looked like my son’s hair when he was four and tried to cut it himself with safety scissors. I was avoiding the suburban lollipop look, but didn’t quite want the post-tornado wreckage image either. I guess we achieved something in-between.
My arms are covered in scratches and scars from all the pruning. The large shrub on the left, had thorns that were more like spikes, and one buried deep in my finger. It really didn’t like me. Japanese beetles hung out on my hat. Spiders came and went. Nothing stopped me. I was fearless.
We cleaned both of his grills too. Nothing but the best for our guy. And the lastest Clive Cussler novel. I taught Sunday School for my eight-year-old son’s class and we made laminated cards Dad could hang on his rearview mirror to remind him of how much his children love him, along with a Bible verse: 1 Corinthians 13:4, with Dad substituted for “love.” So, “Dad is patient, Dad is kind . . . . Dad hopes and never fails.” Every Dad needs to know how much his children look up to him, a little reminder never hurts.