I haven't posted anything in a while, so I just decided it is time to post a free verse poem / teaching story of mine. Like most decent teaching stories, the best fruit isn't a pear ant:
An old pear tree stands on the brow of the hill, the road to Pulaski in front of it, the garden of vegetables behind it.
The summer sun raises high. The sweating politician walks up the hill to the tree, wipes his forehead, and practices his speech before knocking at the next farmhouse:
“Greetings neighbor! You must be concerned about the state of affairs in our fine area. Why the Republicans in this town have denied the widows and the children a decent living, against the Word, while fattening their own wallets! May I count on your support?”
He plucks a pear, eats it, and with a satisfied smile continues on his way refreshed.
The pear tree stands mute, having absorbed the vibrations of the words, waiting, as pear trees will, for a gentle rain.
The brow of the hill is a convenient stop for all those who pass by. The next day, another politician climbs the hill and stops in the shade of the tree, and as politicians are wont to do, is motivated to orate his stump speech.
“Hello fine friend. How are you feeling today? Good, good. I’m doin’ fine myself. may I ask for your vote in the next election? Those Democrats that want to take over our fine area would make us pay more taxes, to the point that we could no longer afford to live here.”
He plucks a pear to eat, eyes it like a magpie, considers that it is a fine pear, and picks a second one to put in his pocket, so that he may enjoy it later. Smiling at his own intelligence, he continues on his route.
The pear tree stands mute, having absorbed the vibrations of the words, waiting, as pear trees will, for a gentle rain.
The following day the traveling preacher on his mule climbs the hill. This being another hot day, he too stops in the shade of the pear tree.
He picks a pear, dutifully thanks the Lord for the blessing of providing fruit so that he may continue to practice the Lord’s work, and after consecrating the fruit, partakes of its sweetness. He muses how that only the chosen can be drawn up to Heaven to sit on the right side of God, and that even this fine pear tree, another of God’s creations will be denied that glory. Inspired, he practices a line of his sermon.
“Yes, you too, brother must see the wickedness of your ways. It is only through Jesus that you can be saved, and it is only through the proper teaching of His Word that only I can provide, that you will reach Jesus!”
Knowing that he sermon of fire and brimstone will require a lot of energy and work, he plucks a half dozen pears to take with him and share with the believers.
The pear tree stands mute, having absorbed the vibrations of the words, waiting, as pear trees will, for a gentle rain.
The wife of the old couple comes out with a dishpan full of dirty dishwater. She takes it to the garden, where the plants are wilting from the heat and lack of rain, and spreads the water around the most needy of the plants. She then comes to the pear tree, and notices the missing pears. She takes the last of the low hanging pears and looks up, thankful that the juiciest and largest pears are up out of easy reach, where they can be plucked later, to be stored and canned for the winter.
The pear tree stands mute, waiting, as pear trees will, for a gentle rain.
That night, the communion of the rain comes. The next morning, the sun begins by filtering through the taller trees to the southeast, touching its branches in a late morning wake-up call.
The old pear tree stands on the brow of the hill, the road to Pulaski in front of it, the garden of vegetables behind it.
