the pit, not the peach: A Parable

10:08 AM

She started as a blossom.

Well, that's not quite right. She was in His eyes even before she began.

But on a branch of Time her own story was born; delicate.

She saw other fruits of her kind all about her. Some small and new like her, others wrinkled and prime-past. Now, flesh and shape were everything to the fruits.
As she ripened she was ashamed of her blemishes. Some fruits never seemed to be bug-bitten or sun-damaged but rather flaunted flawless symmetry.
Every fruit knew that each was given a portion of Time, and yet all would eventually lose their hold on the Tree to fall into Oblivion. The Tree fed them Time, a life-force, a paradox; though it made them grow, it seemed to kill them in the end. Some got more Time than others, but it was a crisis for them all to decide how to spend theirs.
She often looked herself over and was often looked at so she spent much life-force on patching blemishes and irregularities; a never-ending job.

But one day she found a Hope. A quizzical thing, this! A Hope was a glimpse beyond, a wonder about the impending Oblivion. Usually wondering conjured a Fear, not a Hope, so most avoided wonderings. It wasn't like vision or seeing as much as reaching from inside. She liked this Hoping.
It hurt like crazy; she'd feel these stabbings and stirrings every time she spent a little force on her Hope, but it always made her feel brighter somehow. It was as though something inside was growing, fighting with her flesh for space.
The fruits admired her brightness, and some envied it, wondering how they could force their flesh to glow the same. She tried to tell them about the Hope in her core.
But any mention of hers about Oblivion brought out Fears in them, not Hopes. They gave her scorn and fury. She concluded that Hope wasn't something that could be given from one fruit to another, but she glowed with it anyway. No battering could dim her, though they pelted her flesh mercilessly. In fact the places she was cracked, the brighter the light pierced through.

She could only hang on to the Tree for so long. At last she slipped into a freefall, hastening towards Oblivion. It hurt like crazy; her flesh was literally being torn off, a worn out garment in the rushing the fall.


Just Plop? Plop means a soft landing, a welcome catch!
What she once thought defined her had been stripped away, yet here she was burning bright as ever, cradled in His hand. Instead of a shriveled pit, she was a faceted gem, reflecting His Radiance back to Him.

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.
2 Cor. 4 16-18

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