Remember the Sabbath . . .

Sabbath.

The word has come up more often than usual in the past week. Some friends are taking what they call a "Sabbath." A time away. A time of rest. A time dedicated to being with God. It is a discipline that they have followed for several years.

Then in a Sunday School lesson yesterday we talked about different "Sabbaths" in the Jewish tradition, and some of those described in Leviticus.

And then I went to the farm with my dad Sunday afternoon.

We climbed into the old jeep, my dad, Barney the aging black lab, and me, and headed north on Highway 75, through Friday's crossing, past the turn-off to Royal, Susan Moore, Snead's Cross Roads, and finally to the farm.

The old jeep made the trip fine. It has a few quirks, but who among us doesn't? It was a picture-book Alabama summer afternoon, hot and humid, but the canvas bikini top allowed plenty of airflow as we sped down the highway at the breathtaking speed of 45 mph, downhill. Cars rode our steel bumper until they could take it no more, passing on the hills and blind curves between Oneonta and Snead. No doubt about it, I was the classic Sabbath driver. I learned to drive in an old jeep, even older than this one, quite often on the same route. The feeling hasn't changed in all those years, a paradoxical feeling of freedom and purpose. The freedom to ride into summer adventure in the open air, the purpose of keeping the jeep running and/or stopping until a safe arrival at the farm. To this day I can't go by the Horton Mill Covered Bridge without thinking of driving the old jeep near there when the the hood lifted up and then flew over the heads of several of my friends and me before falling harmlessly on the empty highway behind us. Fortunately no mishaps befell us on this Sunday. Can't say as much for two or three unfortunate armadillos we spotted on the way.

So we arrived at the farm on this Sunday afternoon. Barney struggled to get out of the jeep. He is getting a bit old and it is painful to watch him. I am sure the trip stirred memories of younger years for him as much as it did for me, memories that have him leaping from the jeep while it is still in motion and running across the fields. He sort of fell awkwardly out of the jeep, but quickly regained his dignity, and darted, as much as he can dart these days, straight to the fish pond, immediately jumping in to cool off. He spends a great deal of his time these days trying to cool off.

I grabbed a fishing rod out of the gazebo and started to cast into the fish pond, away from Barney. The barb of the hook was buried in the plastic worm, so when a fish or two hit it, they tugged for a couple of seconds and spit the worm out. That was perfectly fine with me. I wasn't really in the mood to take a fish off the hook. But I am pretty sure they both went six or seven pounds.

And dad went to his tractor. The combination of events necessary to crank the tractor render it practically theft proof, unless you just want to load it on a trailer and haul it off. But dad knows the combination. Clutch in, key on, starter depressed, accelerant sprayed in the right hole at the right time. All of a sudden the engine is turning, smoke is billowing, and the old tractor once again comes to life, sputtering and spitting like a drowning victim resuscitated. He engaged the bush hog and begin to mow around the pond, occasionally using the front end loader to lift hedgerows and undergrowth. I turned back to my fishing-but-not-catching for awhile. When I turn back around my dad, who is 83 and one month out of the hospital for blood clots in both lungs, is no longer sitting on the tractor seat. He is standing as he drives, up and down the side of the pond, watching the path in front of him. I turn back to my fishing. Barney sits in the shade panting, and dad finishes his mowing.

We loaded into the jeep, checked on the catfish pond and some other spots, and headed home . . .without an operating clutch.

When I was very young I was confused about Sunday, about the Sabbath and keeping it holy. Some of my relatives thought it was sinful to fish on Sunday, or to do any work on Sunday. It was certainly a sin to cuss about a bad clutch.

Dad, Barney and I did not set out on a time of spiritual discipline like my friends, and we certainly did not observe rituals like those set out in Leviticus.

But I cannot imagine a better way, maybe even a more God-pleasing way, to experience Sabbath than to hop in the old jeep and head to the farm for a few hours of freedom from this world.

Because freedom looks different to different people. For some it's fishing without the hope of catching. For some it's skinny-dipping in cool water, and for some it's standing on a tractor pulling a bush hog.

You won't find that in Leviticus.

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