Jesus Christ The Apple Tree

Jesus Christ the Apple Tree (also known as Christ the Apple Tree) is a poem written by an unknown New Englander in the 18th century. It has been set to music by a number of composers, including Jeremiah Ingalls (1764-1838) and Elizabeth Poston (1905-1987). The version below shows the poem as printed in the 1803 edition of Divine Hymns.

(wikipedia)

Jesus Christ The Apple Tree

The tree of life my soul hath seen,

Laden with fruit, and always green;

The trees of nature fruitless be,

Compar'd with Christ the Appletree.

This beauty doth all things excel,

By faith I know, but ne'er can tell

The glory which I now can see,

In Jesus Christ the Appletree.

For happiness I long have sought,

And pleasure dearly I have bought;

I miss'd of all; but no I see

'Tis found in Christ the Appletree.

I'm weary'd with my former toil-

Here I will sit and rest awhile,

Under the shadow I will be,

Of Jesus Christ the Appletree.

With great delight I'll make my stay,

There's none shall fright my soul away;

Among the sons of men I see

There's none like Christ the Appletree.

I'll sit and eat this fruit divine,

It cheers my heart like spirit'al wine;

And now this fruit is sweet to me,

That grows on Christ the Appletree.

This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,

It keeps my dying faith alive;

Which makes my soul in haste to be

With Jesus Christ the Appletree.

Keep Your Fork!

(From an e-mail from a dear friend who recently lost her husband. This is a re-write of the 1994 Roger William Thomas short story "Keep Your Fork")



There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things 'in order', she contacted her Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.

She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in.

Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her.

'There's one more thing', she said excitedly!

'What's that?' came the Pastor's reply.

'This is very important', the young woman continued. 'I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.'

The Pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.

'That surprises you, doesn't it?' the young woman asked.

'Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request', said the Pastor.

The young woman explained, 'My grandmother once told me this story, and from that time on I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, 'Keep your fork.' It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming...like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!' So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder, 'What's with the fork?' Then I want you to tell them, 'Keep your fork... the best is yet to come.'

The Pastor's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven that he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge. She KNEW that something better was coming.

At the funeral people were waking by the young woman's casket and they saw the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the Pastor heard the question, 'What's with the fork?' and over and over he smiled.

During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either.

He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so gently, that The Best Is Yet To Come!

From "The Baronet's Song"

George MacDonald,

one of my favorite authors,

along with Dickens, Austen, and C.S. Lewis.

In this "gentle, tender love story of the very highest order,"

the master storyteller introduces us to

"Wee Sir Gibbie, the seemingly destitute orphan unable to speak but whose life communicated truth and goodness and love."

MacDonald challenges me through his angelic

character, Gibbie, to put into action

those divine qualities of truth, goodness and love.

I want to be like him (Gibbie)

and more like Him (my LORD and my God)!

I hope you will read some of MacDonald's books

and be challenged by them as well!

One of my favorite passages in

The Baronet's Song:

"Some would count worthless the love of a man who loved everybody. There would be no distinction in being loved by such a man? - and distinction, as a guarantee of their own great worth is what such seek. There are women who desire to be the sole object of a man's affection, and are all their lives devoured by unlawful jealousies. A love that had never gone forth upon human being but themselves would be to them the treasure to sell all that they might buy. And the man who brought such a love might in truth be all-absorbed therein himself. The poorest of creatures may well be absorbed in the poorest of loves. The man who loves most will love best. The man who thoroughly loves God and his neighbor is the only man who will love a woman ideally - who can love her with the love God thought of between them when He made man male and female."

The Cracked Pot

A water bearer in India had two large pots; each hung on either end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in his master's house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of it's accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of it's own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you."

"Why?" asked the bearer. "What are you ashamed of?"

"I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don't get full value from your efforts," the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, "As we return to the master's house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path." Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it somewhat. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half it's load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for it's failure.

The bearer said to the pot, "Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side? That's because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you've watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house."

John's Pumpkin

Last spring I found a pumpkin seed,

And thought that I should go,

And plant it in a secret place,

That no one else would know.

*

And watch all summer long to see

It grow, and grow, and grow,

And maybe raise a pumpkin for

A Jack-o-lantern show.

*

I stuck a stick beside the seed,

And thought that I should shout,

One morning, when I stooped and saw

The greenest little sprout!

*

I used to carry water there,
When no one was about,
And every day I'd count to see
How many leaves were out.

*

Till, by and by, there came a flower
The color of the sun,
Which withered up, and then I saw
The pumpkin was begun;

*

But oh! I knew I'd have to wait
So long to have my fun,
Before that small green ball could be
A great big yellow one,

*

At last, one day, when it had grown,
To be the proper size,
Said Aunt Matilda: "John, see here,
I'll give you a surprise!"

*

She took me to the pantry shelf,
And there, before my eyes,
Was set a dreadful row of half
A dozen pumpkin pies,

*

Said Aunt Matilda; "John, I found
A pumpkin, high and dry,
Upon a pile of rhubbish, down
Behind the worn-out sty!"

*

O, dear, I didn't cry, because
I'm quite too big to cry,
But honestly, I couldn't eat
A mouthful of that pie!
~
Mrs. Archibald

The Flour Sack

In that long ago time when things were saved,

When roads were graveled and barrels were staved,

When worn-out clothing was used as rags,

And there were no plastic wrap or bags,

And the well and the pump were way out back,

A versatile item, was the flour sack.

~

Pillsbury's Best, Mother's and Gold Medal, too

Stamped their names proudly in purple and blue.

The strings sewn on top were pulled and kept;

The flour emptied and spills were swept.

The bag was folded and stored in a sack

That durable, practical flour sack.

~

The sack could be filled with feathers and down,

For a pillow, or would make a nice sleeping gown.

It could carry a book and be a school bag,

Or become a mail sack slung over a nag.

It made a very convenient pack,

That adaptable, cotton flour sack.

~

Bleached and sewn, it was dutifully worn

As bibs, diapers, or kerchief adorned.

It was made into skirts, blouses and slips.

And mom braided rugs from one hundred strips.

She made ruffled curtains for the house or shack,

From that humble but treasured flour sack.

~

As a strainer for milk or apple juice,

To wave men in, it was a very good use,

As a sling for a sprained wrist or a break,

To help mother roll up a jelly cake,

As a window shade or to stuff a crack

We used a sturdy, common flour sack.

~

As dish towels, embroidered or not,

They covered up dough, helped pass pans so hot.

Tied up dishes for neighbors in need,

And for men out in the field to carry seed,

They dried our dishes from pan, not rack

That absorbent handy flour sack.

~

We polished and cleaned stove and table,

Scoured and scrubbed from celler to gable.

We dusted the bureau and oak bed post,

Made costumes for October (a scary ghost)

And a parachute for a cat named Jack,

From that lowly, useful old flour sack.

~

So now my friends, when they ask you

As curious youngsters often do

"Before plastic wrap, Elmer's glue

And paper towels, what did you do?"

Tell them loudly and with pride don't lack

"Grandmother had that wonderful flour sack!"

~

by Colleen B. Hubert

~

(companion post at Lady Farmer Parables )

The Doe

Silently she appeared, like an apparition, from the

woodlands edge to the grassy tideland banks.

Twin fawns followed trustingly behind their scout

as she lead the way across the flats to the safety

of the thicket on the other side.

Gliding as with winged hooves, they swiftly measured the

distance between grass and trees, ever watchful

of dangers fore and aft.

Quickly securing the safety of the newly gained

forest's edge, the doe and her two babes vanished

into the mantle of green just as silently as they appeared.

(photo taken here at Cove Cottage Farm)

(Prose by Lady Farmer)