Fruits Happen

There is a look of calm about him, of a deep resignation that is not withdrawal but rather a wise acceptance of things-as-they-are.  His family farm is one of those here in northern Michigan, orchards of apples, tart and sweet cherries, some plums and apricots.  Hugging Lake Michigan’s leeward shores that moderate the weather, the fruit trees begin the season as a blanket of flowers that are not merely beauty, but promise.  We had met him at our daughter’s house, he one of the young people among their community of young parents, attentive to their children as they broke fairly consistently between men talking of fishing and farming and “all trades, their gear and tackle and trim” and women, speaking of organic food and homeschooling and old-fashioned, simple things.  They were an attractive lot; there was contentment about them.  But the Fruit Farmer was, among them, a calm within the calm.

As the cherry harvest approached, I mused at the life that the region took on, the quiet two-lane roads now traveled by heavy trucks so filled with cherries that the outside of its curves were sticky and dark from centripetal syrup. I heard that it was an overabundant crop that the Fruit Farmer was, like all other growers, leaving a quarter of his trees unpicked to keep prices from falling.  On my early bike ride one morning, I felt the embrace of the harvest.  It was as if I were in the heart of the place, inside, included; I wanted to be involved.  I called the Fruit Farmer and asked him if Kathy and I could spend some time helping to pick cherries in return for some to take home.  He said that he had enough help, but that he’d be glad if we came and took all we would like, that he’d be glad if we could put them to good use. 

I will never forget his hands, cupping around a cluster of dark sweet cherries and pulling gently, coming away overflowing with perfect fruit.  I was glad he showed us how to “pick”; I’d imagined plucking cherries one by one.  Here they were available to us literally by the handful.  He smiled as he saw the awe on our faces and left us to fill our buckets.  After a couple of hours, our buckets were overflowing; full measure, shaken down and running over.

My blogging about Pentecost began with words of the Gesu pastor assuaging people’s fears about a Charismatic Prayer Group in the Catholic parish.  His words were spoken calmly, the words from Scripture: "by their fruits you will know them."  And I finish this Pentecost series with the image of our old car loaded with white buckets brimming over with dark sweet cherries, fruit that we did not earn, but was given to us by the bounty of nature and the magnanimity – great-spiritedness – of the Fruit Farmer. 

I’ve come to know the Fruit Farmer by his fruits, to understand his calm.  He tends to his trees.  He puts his arms around them, places his hands on them.  He trusts nature to do what it can and does all that he can to help it.  The fruit shows up as a sign that things are right.  Apples, tart and sweet cherries, some plums and apricots.   Oh, yes, and Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, Self-control.  Full measure, shaken down and running over, and all that is asked of us is to put them to good use.

  

 FreeLemonadeStand by John J. Daniels is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.