The Thing in the Apple Tree
by Charles C. Cole
A pious farmer, Hup Belmont, has a small primitive shrine in his front yard, the purpose being to remind him to give thanks. It is a one-person pine pew and kneeling pad opposite a glimmering star, a former Christmas tree topper found in a dusty basement bin, hanging from a head-high branch of a ten-year old apple tree.
Hup steps down the porch, across the yard, retrieves his mail from the streetside box and, seeing smiling children on a postage stamp, determines: “Now is as good a time as any.” He drops the mail to the ground and kneels, hands tightly clasped. He doesn’t waste effort with words; this is about opening his receiving heart.
A passing stranger is walking down the quiet road, killing time while his vehicle is repaired by a small, homebased mechanic nearby. He has never seen anyone interact with God publicly outside of church. Never one on one. He watches and marvels, waiting till the farmer pushes up off his stiff knees and stands. Then he dives in and “helps” the gentleman to his feet.
“Easy does it. Tell me, friend, what does a farmer like yourself pray for? Good weather? A promising trend in pork belly futures?”
“Perhaps I prayed that someone would help me stand. And they have. Much obliged.”
“While I appreciate the creative way you’ve included God in your home, shouldn’t religion be left to those who are credentialed to speak the Word?”
“You misunderstand, friend. I don’t speak to God, I listen to Him. This is not a church; it’s a one-way transceiver for a highly inspirational podcast.” The farmer stoops to gather his mail and steps toward his front door. “Sometimes I hear Him, sometimes I don’t. Depends on the day’s static.”
The stranger persists, clinging like a shadow. “But why do it in public? Why not do it at your bedside or the dining room table?”
“Those are good places, too, and traditional, but only for certain times of day. I rush past this little shrine a dozen times an afternoon on one errand or another. In half those trips, if I take a minute or two to be quiet and open and grateful, the amount of minutes I spend daily listening to the Lord becomes the length of a movie instead of merely a commercial break.”
“Surely we agree there are some things that should be done in private, if only so that your devotion doesn’t suffer from distractions.” The stranger good-naturedly points back at his own chest: “Case in point, a random eavesdropping nonbeliever.”
“When I’m listening to God, really concentrating, I couldn’t hear a hurricane lifting my barn like a cat toy. As for you, I don’t think so much that you’re my distraction as I am yours.”
The stranger furrows his brows and strokes his slightly fuzzy chin. “This whole act was for my benefit? You dragged me into your spiritual web! Very clever proselytizing.”
“Friend, if I may call you friend,” says Hup, “I didn’t pull you; you jumped.”
“In which case,” insists the stranger, “I’m officially unjumping. This is me backing away.” And he does. “I got two jobs and three hungry kids; I barely got a moment to sleep nowadays, let alone time to daydream about the hereafter.”
“I’m more concerned about the here and now, myself. I’ve got a honey-do list as long as my arm. Septic needs draining. Roof needs shingling. Chimney needs cleaning. And, to top it off, I’m not as handy as I used to be: Grampa Belmont’s rheumatoid arthritis skipped a generation.”
“Never heard of cleaning a chimney,” scoffs the stranger. “Now you’re putting me on. You paint the bricks to be redder?”
“Do you put lipstick on to brush your teeth?”
“You mean you clean the inside?”
“Drop a wire brush from the top, like cleaning a toilet bowl, only from thirty feet up. Not a lot of finesse, but gravity’s not been my friend of late.”
“Well, hell, point and shove, old fella. Climbing on your roof will give me a better view of the neighborhood, and it’s probably less work than walking to the convenience store on 117 and back.”
“I can give you fifteen bucks for your efforts.”
“Even better.”
That evening, round about sunset, Hup is sipping a “light mixed one” from his porch swing and listening to the crickets, when Gwil Snyder, owner of Snyder’s Repairs, comes calling. He waves without slowing, but stops at the foot of the porch like he’s hit a force field.
“Evening. Heard you had company,” says Gwil. “Make a new convert?”
“Nope, but I got my chimney cleaned; things work out.”
“I remember when I wanted to open a business in the neighborhood. You and your wife, Emma, were the most supportive. Some thought I was going to repair cars by day while selling illicit drugs by night. Maybe turn the basement into a speakeasy.”
“Emma, God rest her soul, could always see the good in people. For most of us, it takes more concentration.”
“Glad my customer wasn’t a bother today,” says Gwil. “Got a retired Marine coming tomorrow, big as a horse. His Jeep probably has a cracked head. Could be hanging around for hours. Idle hands, etc. I’ll send him your way.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Hup, my daughter-in-law’s got cancer. They caught it early. Can you put in a good word with the Big Man for me? I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Sorry, Gwil. I don’t talk, just listen, but I promise he’s heard you. You can borrow the pew any time, by the way.”
“I’m not the kind to wear my religion on my sleeve,” says Gwil. “But if you hear anything worth hearing, let me know. Maybe I’ll change my mind.”
“Will do,” says Hup.
Gwil glances at the shrine. “It’s not fancy, but I guess it gets the point across.”
“That it does,” says Hup.
Copyright © 2023 by Charles C. Cole
