Raking Together

My boys,

The leaves had been falling for maybe a week before I finally admitted the yard needed attention.

Not a few leaves.

Leaves everywhere.

Under the chairs.

Across the walkway.

Caught against the fence.

Piled around the roots of the oak.

I went outside after breakfast with one rake.

That was my first mistake.

I had made it about halfway across the yard when the back door opened.

One of you stepped onto the porch.

"What are you doing?"

"Raking."

You looked at the yard.

"All of it?"

"That was the plan."

You considered this.

"That's going to take forever."

Thank you.

A few minutes later, all three of you were outside.

I found the smaller rakes.

One of you complained that his was a baby rake.

"It fits you."

"I'm not a baby."

"Then use it like a man."

That solved that.

I gave everyone a section.

My idea was simple.

Rake the leaves into one large pile near the wheelbarrow.

Your idea was apparently to rake leaves in every possible direction.

"Toward the pile."

"I am."

"You're raking them away from the pile."

"No, I'm making my own pile."

"We don't need another pile."

"I do."

Within ten minutes, we had four piles.

None of them were near the wheelbarrow.

Then one of you discovered that if you dragged the rake backward while running, the leaves flew into the air.

The other two immediately needed to verify this finding.

Progress stopped.

Leaves returned to places we had already cleared.

I stood there holding my rake, considering whether fatherhood had improved or destroyed my efficiency.

Then one of you yelled,

"Baba!"

I turned around just in time to see you jump into the largest pile.

Gone.

Completely buried.

The other two followed.

There are moments as a father when you have to decide whether to protect the schedule or join the memory.

I put my rake down.

I jumped in.

That cost us another twenty minutes.

Maybe thirty.

Eventually we went back to work.

This time something changed.

One of you started pulling leaves from beneath the oak.

Another moved the smaller piles toward the large one.

The youngest picked up handfuls and carried them to the wheelbarrow because apparently the rake was no longer worthy of him.

I stopped directing every movement.

We found a rhythm.

Rake.

Pull.

Carry.

Dump.

Again.

At one point, I loaded the wheelbarrow too high.

Leaves spilled off both sides.

"You put too much," one of you said.

"I know."

"You always tell us not to put too much."

"I know."

There was a pause.

"So you did it wrong?"

"Yes."

You seemed extremely pleased with this development.

We emptied it together.

By late afternoon, the yard looked like a yard again.

Not perfect.

There were still leaves beneath the bushes.

More would fall tomorrow anyway.

That is the ridiculous thing about raking in October.

You finish beneath a tree that is still full of leaves.

But the four of us stood there looking at what we had done.

One wheelbarrow.

Four rakes.

Dirty shoes.

Leaves stuck to everyone's clothes.

And a yard that would have taken me much longer alone.

I could have done it faster without the jumping.

Without the arguments.

Without four different interpretations of what constitutes a pile.

But faster is not always better.

There is work that becomes lighter because more hands carry it.

And there is work that becomes meaningful because those hands belong to people you love.

I want you to know both kinds.

Someday there will be heavier things than leaves.

A move.

A business.

A sick family member.

A house that needs fixing.

A friend who needs help.

A loss that leaves more behind than one person knows how to carry.

When those days come, I hope your instinct is not always:

I can do this myself.

You probably can.

That is not the same as saying you should.

God gave us strength so we could carry our share.

He gave us one another because sometimes our share is meant to be carried together.

When we finished, I leaned the four rakes against the porch.

The smallest one barely reached halfway up the others.

You looked at them and said,

"We should do it again tomorrow."

I looked up at the oak.

Another leaf fell.

"Don't worry."

I said.

"We will."

I love you.

— Baba

Question:

What work are you making heavier because you have decided doing it yourself is the same thing as being strong?

Moral:

Some work is better shared. Strength is not only being capable of carrying something alone; it is knowing when to bring your hands alongside someone else's and carry it together.

This story reflects real experiences and philosophies behind Backyard Brew. It is shared to inspire perspective and intention.

Author: R. Solace