As we planned the funeral, he estimated about 100 people would come, and we planned accordingly. As it turned out, there were about twice that many.
However, miraculously, the cake for the lunch afterwards did not run out.
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There were just six three year olds present, but one of them was a curly-headed little girl that I had baptized about two years ago.
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But, looking up from my desk, I saw it. Inside the bag was one large, perfectly ripe tomato.
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My mother grew up on a farm in Southwestern Minnesota. I used to think it would be fun to live on a farm. I visited my grandparents where they lived, and wished we lived in a place like that, with strawberries and pigs and kittens in the barn. When I asked my mother, she would laugh and say, "You don't know what you're asking!" She really liked living in a big city.
But once, in the fall, my mother told me that there was one time that she missed living on the farm: Harvest.
7 comments:
Lovely vignettes, Diane. Thanks for sharing these. How are you going to eat the tomato?
Oh my- such stirring words in each one.
Harvest... a beautiful thought.
Today I am off to the funeral of my work (as you know I worship at one parish and work at another) pastor's mother. He thinks that 50 of us, give or take will make the 2 hour trip.
I think it will be double.
That is what I was thinking about before clicking here, interesting.
Lindy -- I don't know how I'll eat the tomato, yet. just want to slice it and eat it raw, right now.
Fran -- there's more I want to say about this pastor and his wife, but I need to ask his permission.
It's a little like the church calendar building up to the Easter morning. Farmer's work all hear for the fall harvest. Our biggest celebration at church was our Thanksgiving services. We built a large display of produce and grains and it was a time of prayer and thankfulness for blessings and gifts. It made me feel a part of the larger community.
I think all of us miss harvest at some level.
diane, this is just so beautiful. thank you!
What a harvest of experiences.
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