MacGyver, Mowers, and the Ministry of Family

MacGyver, Mowers, and the Ministry of Family

It started with good intentions, as most family moments do. I was standing on the front porch, admiring the lawn—or rather, what it could be. Last summer, dry spots ran wild like patches on a tired old quilt. But today, we had full grass. Lush. Thick. Worthy of a Tuesday evening victory lap.

Bella had gotten home from work earlier that day while Barbi and I were out, and God bless her soul, she tried to do a good thing. The girl had a heart to serve. She saw the overgrown yard and figured she could help Dad out. The problem? The back wheel lever on the mower was busted—set to “scalp the earth” mode. She tried anyway. She even found the part Barbi had ordered to fix it. She tried to replace it. She tried. Couldn’t get the wheel off. God bless her again.

By the time we got home, Barbi told me the story—and I could see she was proud. She got teared up talking about Bella’s heart, how she just wanted to help out. Later, when I went to mow, I saw the evidence: two feet of grass sheared down to the dirt. That’s when I decided I’d fix the mower. If not for her effort, I wouldn’t have been inspired to do it today.

I thought, I’ll fix the mower. I thanked Bella for trying to help, then I set out to finish what she started.

I was sitting on a stool with the lawnmower on its side looking at the wheel when I discovered that the wheel wasn’t held on by a screw or a bolt. Oh no. It was secured by a tiny metallic circle of challenge—a curiosity trap known as a push nut. Not your average hardware store screw. This little force of mechanical resistance bites down and doesn’t let go.

First, I thought it would be simple. I grabbed a screwdriver, feeling confident and ready. I was vibing. The grass was thick, the sun was out, the soundtrack of victory was already playing in my head.

But the wheel didn’t give me any room to work. I couldn’t get the screwdriver under the push nut to pry it up. The angle was terrible. The teeth of the push nut dug in like it had been installed by Thor himself.

So I downgraded my tool. Regular flathead to a smaller flathead. Still nothing. Then the small one got jammed and broke. From there, I went through: Phillips screwdriver, needle-nose pliers, a nail, a screw, a moment of prayer.

I looked up and muttered: “Smart is a feeling, but if nothing gets this off, smart’s not going to mow the yard.”

I finally Googled: “How to remove a push nut without losing your salvation.”

Eventually, I gave up on being clever and picked up a hammer and a flathead screwdriver. With the mower on its side and a grim look on my face, I channeled all the MacGyver I had in me. I tapped until it snapped.

Finally. The push nut surrendered. Trying to get it off felt like trying to hit a 90-mile-an-hour fastball with a pencil. But it worked.

I bent the little metal piece tight, thinking it would hold. I slipped it on, thought, “That’ll do it.” I flipped the mower upright, confident and proud.

I started mowing, retracing Bella’s line, and laughed when I saw how she had shaved it down to the dirt. I pushed down the side of the yard and turned up the middle. That’s when I noticed the wheel wobbling.

The centerpiece of the wheel—the part that holds it in place—was gone.

I stopped. Looked around. Backtracked my path. It was only one strip of grass. It couldn’t have gone far. But I couldn’t find it. I walked the row twice, dragging my feet through the grass.

Then I looked back toward the garage—and there it was. Right at the edge of the driveway. The plastic piece and the metal clip were side by side, like they’d walked off the job together.

I tried again. Put it on. Didn’t even finish the line. It came off.

I needed a new plan. Enter the socket.

I found a socket just smaller than the axle. Hammered it on. Felt snug. Solid. I told Barbi about it like I was announcing the invention of fire. I was back on top.

I started mowing with 100% certainty. Even asked Barbi to come admire my work. She did.

I pushed. Row one. Row two. And then—the wheel wobbled.

Gone again. Socket vanished. The wheel was leaning like a toddler on the monkey bars—barely holding on.

Barbi helped me search. We found the plastic insert on the sidewalk. No socket.

I grabbed another socket. Smaller. Angled. Hammered it in like I was forging a sword.

It held.

And I got to mowing again. This time, the wheel stayed on.

But before I could finish the job, the batteries died.

So I plugged them in to charge, put on my headphones, and went for a bike ride around the neighborhood while the sun was starting to set. I listened to Matthew Dicks’ Storyworthy audiobook, soaking in storytelling wisdom. My hands weren’t pushing a mower now, but my mind still wandered through scenes and story arcs.

And I felt it—that peace. That joy.

Because it wasn’t about fixing the mower. It was about Bella trying to help. It was about Barbi searching through the grass beside me. It was about realizing that even when the wheel falls off (and it will), love holds the thing together.

As a dad, you hope your daughter learns to give more than she takes. You try to model it, but most days feel like trial and error. Like you’re hammering the same lesson over and over and watching it fall off mid-row.

Before this moment, I would have seen the broken wheel as an inconvenience. But now I see it as a bridge. A bridge to finish what Bella started. A bridge that reminded me she’s growing up and finding her way to serve.

I used to think I knew my daughter. But the truth is, she surprised me. She showed wisdom, self-control, and a heart to contribute. And that’s ministry too.

Later that evening, with the batteries charged, I came back and finished the mowing. The lawn was fresh-cut, and the golden light faded across the yard.

And I thought: turns out, ministry doesn’t always look like sermons or sanctuaries. Sometimes it looks like sockets and second tries.

Even if the fix of the wheel on the mower doesn’t last, the love behind it will.

What this moment taught me is that we can get things done as a family. That even without the right tools, we can keep showing up. And when obstacles show up, we don’t quit—we just look for another way.

Some repairs are just lawnmowers. Others are legacies.