A damp and cool opening of day.
The air is still.
The ground sodden.
Droplets shimmering on thin, grassy tips. Blades of green en masse.
Open fields reflecting light from the early morning sky. The sun’s rays now slanted, favoring the south as autumn peeks in to say hello.
The changing of seasons will soon be upon us.
Dewy days turn short ~ lending themselves to longer nights. A lovely lengthening of starry splendor.
School buses streak golden hues down country roads once more. Wheels stirring the first fallen leaves of autumn, billowing behind.
Squirrels are busy. Gathering early contributions from the broad branches of the ‘grandfather’ oak. The one that stands towering on the trail’s edge.
Suddenly I remember this tree. And walking beneath it all those years ago.
A smile comes across my face as my mind meanders to a day with my Sweet Louise.
We had stopped at the park after pre-school that late August afternoon. She was only six.
The sun was warm.
And there was a wind of constancy that proved to be memorable. How grateful we were to have had an umbrella in the car.
Because ~ that was the day it rained acorns : )
I remember our laughter as those little nuts fell all around us. Bouncing everywhere. Tiny cinnamon faces with checkered pixie caps.
Intermittently rolling to a stop, they gradually covered the ground.
…
It’s funny how the subtle little things can pull us back in time.
Today I would discover some memories buried deep in the familiar contours of a bushel basket.
And hidden within, a surprise gift from my Heavenly Father.
…
They say that God meets us where we’re at to help guide us through lessons in this life.
He’s met me in some pretty impossible places. But today ~ well, He met me in the harvest.
Right in the middle of tomatoes.
Up to my elbows in them.
Literally.
Gorgeous.
Ripe and red.
Picked that afternoon from a friend’s garden. Still warm from the sun, they were tucked safely into buckets and transported home.
Their skin a beautiful contrast to the old white of the porcelain sink. Afloat like buoyant garnets. Culinary jewels bobbing in the water.
I gently pulled one out and placed it on the old wooden cutting board.
Rinse. Slice. Boil. Churn. Water bath. Seal.
This is the annual process of juicing tomatoes. An all-day-affair, filling jar after empty jar to line our pantry shelves for winter. Quarts and quarts of crimson nectar. A true delight in the cold months ahead.
When snow flies blustery outside, a warm taste of summer is especially welcome.
Cozy chilis.
Savory soups.
And spicy sauces.
Like the tomato seeds saved from these heirloom varieties, so too is the art of canning passed down.
Generations of teaching.
Hours of stories.
Time shared in the kitchens of mothers and grandmothers, wrapped in cotton aprons smelling of tomatoes and a lingering love for their daughters.
Or in this case, daughter-in-law.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-2
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted.
Maybe it was the monotonous cranking of the juicer. Or the lulling sound of bubbling coming from the stove. Either way, I found my mind drifting.
Like the wafting of steam as is rises from the canner, trailing off into thin air.
Gradually dispersing memories.
I wiped my hands on my apron. Glancing across the old wooden table, I saw the juicer that my (once) mother-in-law had passed down to me.
I walked over and poured the pot of piping tomatoes into the sieve. Next, I took hold of the smooth handle and slowly began to turn.
Processing the tender flesh into juice.
Processing the past.
With each rotation, my mind re-wound months and years in my head. Landing in a deserted field of old hurts.
I found myself pondering the pain that was passed down with this juicer. Tainting this once dear tradition.
I contemplated this place in our history. Another breaking of our family.
My darling Sweet Louise was growing up in the midst of it all. I watched the aftermath contort her tiny, tender heart in the years that followed.
Ashes of abandonment strewn haplessly over her days.
Once loving exchanges between the generations turned rancid. Like forgotten tomatoes beneath dried-out leaves in the scorching summer sun.
Rotting in the heat.
Beauty drained.
Cracked and bitter.
Threatening tones and angry words twisted tightly round in her young mind. Like a vengeful vine. Choking out her trust.
Muting memories of what should have been.
Joys of childhood stolen.
…
But God wouldn’t let our story end there.
Romans 8:28
And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.
For years I have carried those memories.
Buried deep inside.
Resentment resurfacing to burn in my chest. Sadness for the way things turned out. Disappointment for my daughter.
And sometimes getting stuck ~ wondering why.
But today, in a sweltering kitchen of endless abundance it seemed God had another plan. He was using these memories, and this moment, to change my heart.
To offer me a new way of looking at things.
I turned that crank a thousand, if a hundred times. And gradually something changed.
My thoughts became prayers.
Prayers for a mother-in-law who had barely crossed my mind in recent years. Now, a silent sending of forgiveness from my kitchen to hers. Wherever she might be.
Maybe canning tomatoes, too.
I imagined a place in her home across time and miles. A space that my Sweet Louise once occupied. Years before.
Maybe on and old step stool next to her grandmother.
Watching as she sliced tomatoes in the sunshine through the August window.
I pictured hands being wiped on an apron. Then arms extended in the direction of that sweet little girl. Eager to pick her up an hold her close.
Suddenly I could picture love.
Love where hatred had been.
And as the smooth wooden handle at the end of the silver arm of the juicer turned, so did my heart.
Tears fell as my Jesus whispered to me.
His arms extended in my direction. Eager to pick me up.
To hold me close.
Isaiah 49:13
Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth; break forth, O mountains, into singing! For the Lord has comforted His people and will have compassion on His afflicted.
John 8:12
When Jesus spoke again to the people, He said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”
The cool of evening began to blow in.
I wrapped my hands in my apron once more and looked out over the water. The sun was setting and I still had much to do.
But in the thick of it all I had found peace.
God met me here today to remind me of the depth of His grace.
That I might taste the essence of true spiritual nourishment.
His bountiful love and fragrant forgiveness.
What joy there is in this blessed harvest!
Lining the shelves of our days with testimony and triumph in Him.
Soul-jars filled with the richness of His faithful heart.
These are the treasures to be shared with the generations to come!
Passed down with our family traditions and tear-stained stories.
Messy aprons and all.
My Sweet Louise 
Please share your thoughts.