The apple tree
My
parents had gone for a six-week visit to the old country, and I had been farmed out
to family friends. The friends lived on a farm, which was very exciting for a six-year-old
city boy.
The farmer, Mr. R., had planted a new
sapling apple tree near the vegetable garden beside the house. It was a lonely-looking
little tree, and it had produced its first-ever apple. The apple was tiny,
but it was an apple. Mrs. R. was proud of it and the family was talking about
it.
Dear Mrs. R. knew me for longer than just one day, and warned me
not to pick the apple. I was to leave it on the tree.
Well, this piqued my interest and curiosity. I went to look at the
apple hanging there on the tree, forlorn and all alone. I wondered what it
would taste like, but Mrs. R.’s warning rang in my ears: "Don't pick the
apple, George!"
Hmm... What was I to do? I reached upwards for the little branch
upon which the apple hung and slowly, carefully, pulled the branch towards me. I went up on my tippy-toes and took a generous bite of the apple. Then,
just as carefully, I let the little branch back up. There! I had not picked the
apple, and yet I had tasted it.
Mrs. R. reported that someone had taken a bite of her
apple. There was only one who could have done it: George! I got a bit of a
scolding, and I was ashamed.
Later I learned that Mr. R. said I should get a spanking for it. His
wife, however, disagreed. George should not be spanked. After all, although he
had taken a bite of the apple, he had not plucked it. It was still hanging
there, albeit missing part of it.
I was being legalistic, but Mrs. R. showed me grace. I had
observed the letter of the law, but she showed me favour when I had
deserved the opposite: punishment. The definition of grace.
