three-leaf clover picking days

Modern technology does have its down sides (see Rob Bell’s recent series: A Brief Guide to the Undernet: Parts One, Two, and Three), but one of its up sides allowed for one of my dearest friends and I to spend an evening this weekend chatting via FaceTime while we cooked our respective dinners in two different countries.  It was lovely.  A couple of hours into our conversation, in which we had already covered everything from work to relationships to the best ways to cook bratwurst and stir-fry veggies, we moved on to learning styles, which led us to reminiscing about high school – which, in turn, reminded me of three-leaf clover picking days.

I think it was about halfway through my first semester of ninth grade at The Williams School when our Latin teacher, who taught as much philosophy as he did Latin in his classes, launched into a story about the elusive three-leaf clover and sent us packing, with the promise that if we did not return to class the next day with a freshly-pressed and perfect three-leaf clover for his collection, we would not be taking his class anymore.  We crossed the driveway toward the large lawn opposite the school, a little stressed out by this unexpected and mysterious assignment, wondering aloud to each other if we’d have enough time in one short class period to find this random plant.

As it turned out, that particular lawn was comprised of more clover than grass, and it was the easiest assignment we’d ever been given.  Within two minutes, we all had a perfectly formed three-leaf clover flattened within the covers of our textbooks, and the rest of the class time to do absolutely nothing.  So we spread out, using backpacks as pillows and jackets as blankets, flopping in small groups in the grass or camping out on the steps of the nearest building – soaking up the sun, chatting with our friends, and enjoying the unexpected freedom.

Over the next few years, we learned to cherish those three-leaf clover picking days.  They were granted infrequently, but somehow always at just the time we collectively needed a break.  As we grew older, we spent less time goofing off and more time really talking, and some of my favorite memories of senior year are of conversations held on sun-baked steps during those forty-ish minutes of freedom.  Clover-picking days were a gift, and they taught us to value friendship, conversation, and rest.  Long before I learned that Sabbath was so much more than not doing work or going to church on a Sunday, I experienced the freedom and joy that comes from being given the gift of time: to be outdoors and (temporarily) unchecked by responsibilities; to sift through our thoughts – sometimes alone, sometimes with friends; and to simply be still for a minute, not rushing off to the next thing.

We all need that – perhaps now more than ever.  I didn’t pick any clover today, but I spent time talking with friends, strolling though a rose garden, listening to a philosophy podcast, and letting my thoughts – and my soul – settle a bit.  I needed it, and I’m grateful for the early lessons that set me up for success.  No one had to tell me to take a break today, because a teacher once looked at some tired kids and gave them an experience that taught them what a gift even one hour of freedom can be.

If you’re feeling tired and worn out, I hope you’ll give yourself the freedom to take a day – or even just an hour – off this week.  Go hunt for that elusive three-leaf clover; you won’t regret it.

Image credit: jeonsango on Pixabay via pexels.com