One of the great mysteries of suburban life is that everyone seems to know precisely when you have just finished washing your car.
It is an astonishing phenomenon.
You can spend the entire morning in perfect solitude. Not a soul appears. Birds sing. Bees hum. Time itself seems to have wandered off for a nap.
Then, at the exact moment you coil up the hose…
…your neighbour walks outside carrying a watering can.
Or another neighbour begins washing windows.
Someone else decides today is finally the day to pressure wash the deck.
It is almost liturgical.
I suspect there is a secret neighbourhood committee devoted entirely to synchronized outdoor chores.
Membership appears to be hereditary.
Now, before anyone writes to inform me that this is merely coincidence, allow me to point out that coincidence explains far fewer things than theologians generally admit.
At any rate, there is something rather delightful about these summer rituals.
Nobody schedules them.
Nobody sends invitations.
Yet somehow, entire streets quietly come alive.
One person trims hedges.
Another weeds flowerbeds.
Someone else pushes a lawn mower in perfectly straight lines that would make Roman engineers proud.
Children ride bicycles.
Dogs supervise.
Retired gentlemen stand with remarkable authority beside absolutely nothing in particular, hands folded behind their backs, offering thoughtful observations such as, “Looks like rain.”
This, I should point out, is considered an important civic duty.
What fascinates me is that almost none of these little encounters begin with important conversations.
Nobody marches across the lawn to debate theology or economics.
Instead they begin with wonderfully ordinary things.
“Your tomatoes are coming along.”
“That rose bush looks happy.”
“Nice evening.”
“You’re getting there.”
Entire friendships have been built upon conversations that started with garden hoses.
Perhaps that should not surprise us.
God has always seemed remarkably fond of beginning extraordinary things with ordinary conversations.
Jesus spoke while walking dusty roads.
He talked beside wells.
Along seashores.
At dinner tables.
While people were fishing.
While they were gardening.
While someone climbed a tree just to get a better view.
The Kingdom of God has an unmistakable habit of arriving in places where people least expect to discover theology.
Sometimes all it takes is a hose.
Or a watering can.
Or two neighbours standing beside a fence pretending to discuss mulch while actually sharing the burdens of life.
There is something quietly holy about those backyard conversations.
They ask nothing of us except presence.
No appointments.
No agendas.
No presentations.
Just the gentle willingness to stop for five minutes before going back to pulling weeds.
The older I become, the more convinced I am that grace enjoys lingering in precisely these unspectacular moments.
We often imagine spiritual growth arriving through dramatic revelations.
Instead, it frequently sneaks up on us while discussing whether this year’s hydrangeas look better than last year’s.
That, I suspect, is one reason Scripture is filled with gardens.
The Garden of Eden.
The vineyards of Israel.
The mustard seed.
The lilies of the field.
The garden outside the empty tomb.
God seems entirely comfortable doing important work among growing things.
Perhaps that includes us.
Ordinary Time is, after all, the Church’s gardening season.
No great festivals.
No dramatic holy days.
Just the slow, patient work of becoming people who resemble Christ a little more than we did yesterday.
Growth is seldom spectacular.
It is usually as quiet as tomatoes ripening.
As unnoticed as grass growing.
As ordinary as neighbours waving across the driveway.
Which means that this week, should you happen to be outside with a hose in your hand, pay attention.
You may find yourself in conversation.
You may discover someone needing encouragement.
You may end up laughing over absolutely nothing at all.
And if you do…
Do not be too quick to dismiss it as merely another suburban coincidence.
It may simply be another place where the Kingdom has decided to bloom.
Even beside the petunias.