Be kind, work hard

Forty-two years ago the phone rings and my mom answers, “Yes, really, I’m embarrassed, I’ll take care of it.” Looking at me with disappointment as she hangs up the receiver, I know the call is about me.

“Tell me about today,” she asks as I wonder where this conversation might go. “Well, we weeded the hillside, created new trail and repaired the trail where the rain washed it out last fall.”

Mom looks at me as she bites her bottom lip and asks, “And?”

“Well, we saw a snake,” I add wondering what I might have done to embarrass my mother.

“And, how hard did you work,” Mom asks as her brow farrows and tone raises.

“I worked hard,” I offer as if answering her question with a question.

Mom’s open hand quickly connects with my right cheek creating a slap which sounds worse than it feels. My mother’s tears reach her cheek before I am capable of understanding why I am being punished then I begin to cry.

Choking back her emotions, mom struggles to talk, “That was your scoutmaster on the phone. He said you messed around while the other boys worked and that you need to apologize to the boys for not pulling your weight.”

The next week I spend eight hours a day pulling every weed in our back yard by hand. My mom does not talk to me except to offer, “It’s time to go to work,” and, “Work’s over. It’s time to come into the house.”

I get the message. Working hard is important — not only important to my mother but as I learn in the 90-degree summer sun, important to me.

As I pull a weed, I search for the next weed requiring to be dispatched from the lawn. I work in small sections of the yard, examine my work once the weeds are removed and am proud of the thoroughness and dedication to my detail of the task.

The grass, now able to breathe and grow without the choking effect of noxious plants, looks beautiful in my wake.

On my third day of punishment, I see small grass seedlings sprouting from the displaced soil where a weed used to grow.

I begin to find pleasure in my pain. What once was a chore is now a task; something that must be done to make my world a better place.

This afternoon I walk into the house for a glass of water, see mom reading a book on the couch and say, “Mom, I’m sorry.” She looks at me, smiles gently and returns her gaze to the words in front of her.

I learn my lesson. I’m not pulling weeds because of the embarrassment I cause my mother.

I’m pulling weeds to build my character. I work in the summer-sun, sweating, becoming sore and tired and doing menial labor to understand the importance of work.

The following Tuesday I attend my scout meeting.

After pledging allegiance to the American flag, stating the scout motto and scout oath I ask the scoutmaster if I may talk with the troupe?

After approval from the scoutmaster, I simply state, “I want to say thank you for working hard on the trail last week. I didn’t do my best and expected all of you to do my work for me. I am sorry and will do better in the future.”

The kids are not sure how to respond. Most are kind, some agree that I slacked off and some are mad that I did not pull my weight.

I can accept their responses as they are genuine and real. I keep my word. I work hard in every project after this day.

This lesson I remember as if it happened today.

I can still feel the slap of my mother’s hand on my face and the emotion of a mom disappointed in her eldest son.

Today I work hard and I do my best to be kind.

As I lay my head on the pillow each night I replay the day in my brain before I say my prayers.

I ask; did I make a difference?

Did I work hard?

Was I kind? If the answer to these questions is yes, I pray for those who struggle, those in pain and wish the best for those I love.

If the answer is no, I pray for strength to become a better person tomorrow and hope my prayers will be answered.