Grapes

September 25, 2019

“The Bailey charm; you can’t read it in a book, you can’t buy it in a store.” So my nephews used to say in their dating days. The same can be said of the Bailey grape juice. Welch’s has nothing on what’s been cooking on our stove today. That sweet Concord aroma fills the house as the steamer works its magic. It’s that time of year; the leaves are falling, apples are in the fruit stands, the vineyards are heavy with their bounty. In you drive around in an air-conditioned vehicle you’ll miss the fragrance of the grapes. Open the windows and inhale deeply; it’s an experience not to be missed. 

The cycle of the seasons rolls on; autumn’s harvest will soon give way to winter’s cold and snow. We’ll sit by the fire, soaking up the warmth that was stored in the wood, waiting to be released. Fruit and vegetables put away in September will fill our plates in January, and the juice I canned tonight will satisfy thirsty grandchildren all year long. The world rolls on; politicians jockey for power, the poor scratch for survival, widows weep, children play, armies march and fight. Processing grapes may not seem like much, but most of life consists of little things that in and of themselves are insignificant, but taken together, fulfill the promise of God given to Noah: “While the earth remains, Seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, winter and summer, and day and night shall not cease (Genesis 8:22).” For that, and for the fruit of the vine, I am thankful tonight.