Dad whispered to Steven that he didn’t think I could fix it.  But I did not know that.  The last three heads on the long line of high-pressure heads gave no water but sat dry and unproductive.  What in the world is happening between the last spraying sprinkler and the first dead one? a mere eight feet apart.  I wondered day after day as the old junipers crackled with drought.  I had conceded to myself that I might not be able to diagnosis the cause, much less to repair it.  The fallen blue spruce is gone but left behind a complicated carpet of crisscrossing roots impossible to shovel-dig.  Dad’s ax, freshly sharpened with a finely-grooved file, cut a spade-wide trench I could shovel.  Dad had been ruminating over his long and productive life, and lamented to Mom and me that “I worked too hard for too long.  I wasn’t home enough with Lucille or you children.  She raised our family almost alone.”  And Mom and I reassured him we were all fine, better for it in fact, and reminded him of the great legal work he had done and the greater soul-saving labor that enriched thousands of lives over thirty years.  And here I was on my knees slashing and digging and swearing to discover, hopefully, and repair, improbably, the unseen sprinkler pipe problem while family visited indoors.  Four hours was too high a price to pay for the project: “We could call Victor to come fix it,” Dad had offered.  Not worth the return given lost time for other projects.  But I wanted to prove to myself (and to him?) that I was smart enough and persistent enough and strong enough to solve the mystery and repair the break.  Even with the pipe exposed, no visible problem revealed itself, but cutting into the black funny pipe and unscrewing the elbow from the white PVC, I found a dense round ball of fine roots entwined with pebbles, and could instantly discern how each pressurization of the line pressed the ball into the too-small funny-pipe, creating a very effective plug.  Terry contributed spare funny part connectors—a “T” and two elbows—and Dad some dust funny pipe scraps.  Repairing the pipe ended up being the simplest part of the entire project.  I cast the pipe repair photo onto Dad’s TV and explained the process, the problem, and the repair.  “You did it!” he praised, genuinely grateful and unsurprised, not knowing that I now knew of his earlier doubts.  I had proven to myself (and to him?) that I could do it, and for that outcome four hours was an excellent investment.  Resting with Dad in the living room that evening, he conveyed the increasing feeling of urgency he has been feeling to prove to himself and to God that he could change, that he could abandon old idiocies, could phase out his foolishness, could align himself more completely with truth and orient his mind and heart more exactly to his God.  The Son of that God had explained to his faithful that the Father that sent him is true.  And that is the truth Dad trusts, now and forever.