We kept seeing them on the side of the road—two to three feet high, blue flowers clustered at the top of tall stems with long narrow leaves.  We called them wild irises because that’s what they looked like, and I wished aloud that we had some.  So Keith stopped one afternoon on the way home from work and dug up a few.  I looked them up in my wildflower book and found their true name—spiderwort.  What an ugly name, I thought, and called them my wild irises instead. 
            Then we learned about them.  They spread faster than anything we had ever planted, in places we really didn’t want them, but the worst was this—they were only beautiful early in the morning or right after a rain.  Otherwise those blooms turned black and ugly by noon, earlier in the heat of summer.  If ever there was a fair weather flower, this was it. 
            Just as I misjudged the beauty of those wildflowers, I fear that some of us may be mistaken about how God judges our beauty.  Dressing up on Sunday morning is not what matters to God.  Having a tie on is not what makes a man worthy to serve at the Lord’s Table.  While I dress carefully on Sundays, one of the few times I get to wear a pretty dress these days, it has little to do with whether God thinks I am beautiful.  To God, beauty is seen in faithfulness, in righteous and holy lives, and in kindness shown to others.  In many cases, we don’t look particularly pretty while doing those things. 
            We never look better to God than when we are bruised and bloody from a fight with Satan, battered from overcoming the temptation to sin.  We are pretty when we are clad in old clothes cleaning up after our families, and handsome when plastered with sweat and dirt from doing the yard work for a widow.  We are lovely to God when we sit around in our old blue jeans talking about the Bible to a friend who asked a question, or inviting a neighbor to a Bible study.  We are beautiful to Him when our bodies are thin and our eyes sunken from facing an illness that came only because so many years ago the Devil succeeded with Adam, yet we face it with trust in a God who has a plan.  We are especially gorgeous to Him when our bodies are old and bent, and our hair gray and thin, having lived a life of faithfulness.
            Spiderworts are pretty only when things are easy, only when life is fun.  When that’s over, they live up to their name—black and ugly, a weed everyone could do without.  Don’t make God feel that way about you.
 
I am faint and sore bruised: I have groaned because of the tumult of my heart. Lord, all my desire is before you; And my groaning is not hidden from you. My heart throbs, my strength fails me: As for the light of mine eyes, it also is gone from me. My lovers and my friends stand aloof from my plague; And my kinsmen stand afar off… in you, O Jehovah, do I hope: You will answer, O Lord my God.  Psa 38:8-11,15.
 
Dene Ward

Several years ago I received a pot of rust colored chrysanthemums as a gift.  I enjoyed them for many days before they began to fade.
            “Well that’s that,” I thought as I placed them on the outside workbench so Keith could salvage the dark green plastic pot for other uses.  By the time he got to them, they were brown and withered, as dead looking as any plant I had ever seen.
            Keith cannot stand to throw things away.  “It might come in handy,” he always says as he pulls things out of the trash.  That is why he stuck those dried out flowers in the ground beneath the dining room window.  Yet even he was amazed when a few days later green leaves sprouted on those black stems.  It was fall, a mum’s favorite season, and before long I had twice as many as I had started with.
            Fast forward to Thanksgiving, a year later.  I now had a bed full of rust colored mums about two feet square.  The next year the bed was four feet wide and my amaryllises were swamped.  Keith built a raised bed about eight feet square, half of it for the mums and the rest for a plumbago, a miniature rose, and a blue sage.  That has lasted exactly one year.  The plumbago, rose, and sage have been evicted by the mums and need a new home.
            What started as one six inch pot of mums, withered and brown, has become 64 square feet of blooms so thick they sprawl over the timbers of the raised bed into the field surrounding it.  Whenever I cut an armful for a vase inside, you cannot even tell where I cut them. 
            We often fall prey to the defeatist attitude, “What can one person do?” Much to the delight of our Adversary we sit alone in the nursery pot, wither, and die.  Yet the influence we have as Christians can spread through our families, our workplaces, our neighborhoods, and our communities.  The good deeds we do, the moral character we show, the words we do—and don’t—say make an impression on others.  Those are the seeds we plant, never giving in to the notion that one person cannot accomplish anything.  The attitudes we show when mistreated and the peace with which we face life’s trials will make others ask, “Why?  Can I have this too?  How?”
            Plant a seed every chance you get.  If a six inch pot of dried up mums can spread so quickly, just think what the living Word of God shown through your life can accomplish.
 
And he said, How shall we liken the kingdom of God?  Or in what parable shall we set it forth?  It is like a grain of mustard seed, which, when it is sown upon the earth, though it be less than all the seeds that are upon the earth,  yet when it is sown, grows up, and becomes greater than all the herbs, and puts out great branches, so that the birds of the heaven can lodge under the shadow thereof, Mark 4:30-32.
 
Dene Ward

In this part of Florida, summer begins in May.  The hot sun has traveled north and once again crosses directly over the house instead of the field.  The spring blooms have faded long ago—no more yellow jessamine cascading over the trellis, no more azaleas jacketed with blooms in every shade of pink and purple, no more jasmine sending out heavy clouds of sweet fragrance.  Now it's simply too hot.
            But—the blueberries are ready to be picked.  When we had our little blueberry patch we went out every other morning, plastic bucket in hand, and picked.  Before five minutes were up, I could feel the first prickles on my scalp and in the next five, the perspiration started rolling out of my hair.  Did I say it was hot?  But it was certainly worth it.
            At first, only a few were ripe enough, barely dusky blue, and we might have enough to throw in a bowl of cereal, or, if I saved them for three or four days, a batch of muffins or pancakes.  By the second week, things had improved and blueberry pie or a crisp was in the works.  By the end of the season we were loading up quart size plastic tubs and putting them in the freezer.  We usually pulled the last tub out sometime around March of the following year.  Blueberries almost all year long!
           Why didn't we pick them all at once, you ask?  Actually, you probably know the answer to that.  You only pick the ripe ones and they do not ripen all at the same time.  That's one reason it takes so long to pick.  You have to go limb by limb, berry by berry, in order to get the best.  There is a word for that—oddly enough, it's called "cherry-picking" because, I presume, when you pick cherries you do it exactly the same way, limb by limb, cherry by cherry, only picking the ones you really want.
            If we aren't careful, we do the same thing with the Bible.  We cherry-pick the commands we want to obey and ignore the rest.  They don't count.   They aren't important.   Whatever the metaphor might be for "ripe."  You think we would never do such a thing?  Let me show you a few.
            None of us would neglect Mark 16:16; Acts 2:38; Acts 22:16; 1 Pet 3:21 would we?  In fact, I bet you don't even need to look those up.  You already know that they refer to the command to be baptized.  Of course we need to be baptized.
            But the same God who commanded baptism also said, "Husbands love your wives as your own body" (Eph 5:28) and "Live with your wives in an understanding way, giving her honor…" (1 Pet 3:7). 
           The same who God who said, "Wives submit to your own husbands" (Eph 5:22) also said "[Everyone] submit to one another" (Eph 5:21) and "We who are strong have an obligation to bear the infirmities of the weak and not to please ourselves" (Rom 15:1). 
            The same God who said we should partake of the Lord's Supper on the first day of the week when we are gathered together (Acts 20:7) also said we are to "Sing and make melody to the Lord" (that's each individual) (Eph 5:19). 
         The same God who said, "Preach the Word" (2 Tim 4:2) also said, "Withdraw yourselves from every brother who walks disorderly" (2 Thes 3:6).
           Or as James the Lord's brother put it, the same God who said, "Thou shalt not kill" and "Thou shalt not commit adultery" also said we should not show bias toward another human being (James 2:8-11). 
            Now tell me we are not guilty occasionally of "blueberry-picking" among God's commands.  Usually it's something we want to excuse ourselves from because it is not as pleasant, not as easy, and might cause us embarrassment or even inconvenience.  Perhaps it means we will have to totally change our attitudes about what devotion to God really means.
           It's easy really.  If He said it, do it.  That's the way His child should obey.  Not judging his law as if we have the right to decide what is and is not important.  We cannot run to Matthew 23 and the Pharisees either.  See what Jesus said to them:  Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint and dill and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faithfulness. These you ought to have done, without neglecting the others (Matt 23:23).  Yes, some commands are "weightier" than others, but Jesus said, you do them both, not leave one undone because you don't want to do it—because that's what it really boils down to.
           God never meant us to go blueberry picking with His Law.  He just wants us to obey it.
 
For whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become accountable for all of it (Jas 2:10).
 
Dene Ward
 

I had an up close and personal encounter with a wildflower a couple of years ago.  When we plant a new bed out in the field, we baby it the first year.  The point is for them to grow up scattered in the grasses and among other wildflowers in a natural way, but if you don’t get them off to a good start, they won’t stand a chance with all the competition out there for ground space and rainwater.
            So I was weeding the latest patch, which we had let go far beyond the normal time span.  I had difficulty even finding some of the small plants amid all the waist high grass and weeds.  I had nearly finished, was soaking wet and black up to my elbows, when I noticed one more low-growing weed and bent over to pull it.  I did not see the bare stalk of the wildflower right between my feet, leafless and flowerless, standing three feet high.  I did not know it was there until, as I bent over, it slid right into my eye like a hot wire.  Which eye?  The one which most lately has been operated on, the one with the shunt, the capsular tension ring, and the silicone lens, the one that already hurts the most. 
            The doctor and I spent nearly two weeks fixing me up after this little mishap, checking to see if there was any permanent damage, checking to see if the shunt had been knocked out of place, checking for infection, and worse, for plant fungus.  As it turns out, all I had was a hematoma and a laceration, but it was an exciting couple of weeks.
            That was too close and personal an encounter with a flower, but we can never be too close and personal with God.  I have had to learn that.  The prevailing sentiment many years ago seemed to be that we did not want to do or say anything that might make someone apply a religious pejorative to us indicating belief in something other than correct Bible teaching about God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit.  Instead of saying, “I’m blessed,” instead of saying, “God took care of me,” indeed, instead of attributing anything to the providence of God, we said, “I’m lucky.”  We wouldn’t want someone to get the wrong idea, would we?
            Where did we come up with that?  Read some of David’s psalms.  He gave God the credit for everything.  Read Hannah’s song, or Moses and Miriam’s after crossing the Red Sea.  Since when don’t the people of God tell everyone what God has done for them?
            Read some of Paul’s sermons.  He does not seem a bit concerned that someone might use what he says to give credence to false teaching.  “You know that idol you have out there?” he asks the Athenians, “the one to the Unknown God?  Let me tell you about him.”  He tells Felix, But this I confess to you that after the Way which they call a sect, so serve I the God of our fathers, Acts 24:14.  It didn’t matter a bit what people called it, as long as he could talk about it.  In fact, he used their misconceptions as opportunities to preach the Gospel.
            Maybe that is my problem—I don’t want to talk about it.  It makes me uncomfortable.  It has nothing to do with whether someone gets the wrong idea about the Truth, but everything to do with me feeling ill at ease, or downright embarrassed.  I don’t want to be called a religious fanatic and certainly not a “Holy Roller!”  Yes, I want a close, personal relationship with God, as long as no one else knows about it.
            But here is the deal:  If I am too embarrassed by my relationship with God to even acknowledge it, then He won’t acknowledge me either, and I am the one with everything to lose. 
            Go out there today and say or do something that will make someone else curious enough to ask you a question.  Then open your mouth and unashamedly tell them how wonderful an up close and personal relationship with your Creator and Savior really is.
 
Everyone therefore who shall confess me before men, him will I also confess before my Father who is in Heaven.  But whoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father who is in Heaven, Matt 10:32,33.
 
Dene Ward

My husband never knew this and now he will be impossible to live with on this day, demanding tomatoes at every meal, as well as snacks and desserts as a celebratory measure.  April 6th is National Fresh Tomato Day.  For 40 years he has planted enough tomatoes in our garden to feed the entire county.  To his credit, he has shared probably a literal ton with church members, neighbors, piano students, and doctors.  His favorite thing in the world is a platter of the things sliced several inches deep on the dinner table every night for as long as the season lasts.  And that means I have to do something with the ones that don't fit on that platter before they go bad.  So while the boys were still home, I canned forty quarts or more every year, plus a few pints of tomato sauce, plus tomato juice, and once or twice, even some ketchup and tomato jam.  All of those things involved a huge amount of work.
            Canning tomatoes is one of the more difficult garden season chores.  You wash each and every tomato.  You scald each and every tomato.  You pound ice blocks till your arms ache in order to shock and cool each and every scalded tomato.  You peel each and every tomato and finally you cut up each and every tomato.  Then you sterilize jars, pack jars, and process jars.  Only 7 jars fit in the canner at a time, so you go through that at least 6 times for canned tomatoes alone.
            And you will have more failures to seal with canned tomatoes than any other thing you can.  As you pack them in, pushing down to make room, you must be very careful not to let the juice spill over into the threads of the jar.  And just in case you did that heinous crime, you take a damp cloth and wipe each thread of each jar.  Tomato pulp will keep a perfectly good jar, lid, and ring from sealing.
            In order to have that many tomatoes you must be willing to cut up a few that are half-rotten, disposing of the soft, pulpy, stinky parts in order to save sometimes just a bite or two of tomato.  Now that there are only two of us, I usually limit myself to 20+ quarts.  I still put one in every pot of spaghetti sauce, one in every pot of chili, and one in every pot of minestrone, as well as a few other recipes, it’s just that I don’t make as many of those things as I did with two big boys in the house.  Now I can afford to be a little profligate.  If I pick up a tomato with a large bad spot, I am just as likely to toss the whole thing rather than try to save the bite or two that is good, especially if it is a small tomato to begin with.  Why go to all that work—washing, scalding, shocking, peeling, cutting up, packing—for a mere teaspoon of tomato?
            But isn’t that what God and Jesus did for us?  For narrow is the gate, and straitened the way, that leads unto life, and few are they that find it. Matt 7:14.
            The Son of God, the Lord of Lords, the King of Kings, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Phil 2:6-8.  And he did that for a half—no!--for a more than half rotten tomato of a world.  He did that to save a remnant, a mere teaspoon of souls who would care enough to listen and obey the call. 
            Sometimes, by the end of the day, when my arms are aching, my fingers are nicked and the cuts burning from acidic tomato juice, my back and feet are killing me from standing for hours, and I am drenched with sweat from the steamy kitchen, I am ready to toss even the mostly good tomatoes, the ones with only a tiny bad spot, because it means extra work beyond a quick slice or two.  Aren’t you glad God did not feel that way about us?  It wasn’t just a half rotten world he came to save, it was every half rotten individual in that world, of which you and I are just a few.
 
But what is God's reply to him? “I have kept for myself seven thousand men who have not bowed the knee to Baal.” So too at the present time there is a remnant, chosen by grace. Rom 11:4-5
 
Dene Ward
 

National Carrot Day was begun in 2003 in an effort to increase awareness of the beneficial compounds of carrots.  I am told it is celebrated around the world with carrot parties, featuring carrot dishes and guests dressed in orange or in some cases in carrot costumes.
            Carrots do far better up north than down here in Florida.  Whether it's the climate or the lack of nutrition in the sandy soil, I don't know, but we seldom bother planting them.  One year we did though, planting them late by Florida standards, so I was just pulling carrots the first week of June.  It wasn’t difficult; I pulled the whole row in about 15 minutes.  Still, it was disappointing—a twenty foot row yielded a two and a half gallon bucket of carrots that turned into a two quart pot when they were cleaned and sorted, cutting off the tops and tossing those that were pencil thin or bug-eaten.
            Then I thought, well, consider the remnant principle in the Bible.  Out of all the people in the world, even granting that the population was much less than it is now, only eight were saved at the Flood.  Out of all the nations in the world, God only chose one as His people.  Out of all those, only one tribe survived the Assyrians, and out of all those, only a few survived the Babylonians and only 42,000 of those returned to the land out of the 1,000,000 or so in Babylon.  What's that?  4.2%?
            Jesus spoke of the wide gate and the narrow gate.  Surely that tells us that though God wishes all to be saved, only a few will be.  So out of a twenty foot row of carrots, I probably threw out half.  Then we threw out a third of those that were too small to even try to scrub and peel.  Yet we probably did better with our carrots than the Lord will manage with people!  And I learned other principles that carrot-pulling day, too.
            When I pulled those carrots some of them had full beautiful tops, green, thick-stemmed, and smelling of cooked carrots when I lopped them off.  Yet under all that lush greenery several had very little carrot at all.  They were superficial carrots—all show and no substance.  Others were pale and bitter, hardly good for eating without adding a substantial amount of sugar.  Then under some thin, sparse tops, I often found a good-sized root, deep orange and sweet.  Yes, they were all the same variety, but something happened to them in the growth process.
            Some of us are all top and no root.  It always surprises me when a man who is so regular in his attendance has so little depth to his faith.  Surely sitting in a place where the Word is taught on a consistent basis should have given him something, even if just by osmosis.  But no, it takes effort to absorb the Word of God and more effort to put it into practice, delving deeper and deeper into its pages and considering its concepts.  The Pharisees could quote scripture all day, but they lacked the honesty to look at themselves in its reflection.
            And there are some of us who have little to show on the outside, but a depth no one will know until a tragedy strikes, or an attack on the faith arises, or a need presents itself, and suddenly they are there, standing for the truth, showing their faith, answering the call.  I knew one man who surprised us all with his strength in the midst of trial, a quiet man hardly anyone ever noticed.  Yet his steadfastness under pressure was remarkable.  I knew another who had been loud with his faith, nearly boasting in his confidence that he was strong, yet who shocked us all with his inability to accept the will of God, his assertions that he shouldn’t have to bear such a burden when he had been so faithful for so long.  Truly those carrot tops will fool you if you aren’t careful.  “Judge not by appearance,” Jesus said, “but judge righteous judgment.”  Look beneath those leafy greens and see where and how your root lies.
            Evidently the principles stand both for man and carrots.  Don’t count on your outward show, your pedigree in the faith.  Develop a deep root, one that will grow sweeter as time passes and strong enough to stand the heat of trial. 
            And don’t assume you are in the righteous remnant if that righteousness hasn’t been tested lately.  God hates more to throw out people than I hate to throw out carrots, but He will.  Don’t spend so much time preening your tops that your root withers.  And finally, only a few will make it to the table; make sure you are one of them.
 
Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. Revelation 3:20            
 
Dene Ward          

Several years ago I received a pot of rust colored chrysanthemums as a gift.  I enjoyed them for many days before they began to fade.
            “Well that’s that,” I thought as I placed them on the outside workbench so Keith could salvage the dark green plastic pot for other uses.  By the time he got to them, they were brown and withered, as dead looking as any plant I had ever seen.
            Keith cannot stand to throw things away.  “It might come in handy,” he always says as he pulls things out of the trash.  That is why he stuck those dried out flowers in the ground beneath the dining room window.  Yet even he was amazed when a few days later green leaves sprouted on those black stems.  It was fall, a mum’s favorite season, and before long I had twice as many as I had started with.
            Fast forward to Thanksgiving, a year later.  I now had a bed full of rust colored mums about two feet square.  The next year the bed was four feet wide and my amaryllises were swamped.  Keith built a raised bed about eight feet square, half of it for the mums and the rest for a plumbago, a miniature rose, and a blue sage.  That has lasted exactly one year.  The plumbago, rose, and sage have been evicted by the mums and need a new home.
            What started as one six inch pot of mums, withered and brown, has become 64 square feet of blooms so thick they sprawl over the timbers of the raised bed into the field surrounding it.  Whenever I cut an armful for a vase inside, you cannot even tell where I cut them. 
            We often fall prey to the defeatist attitude, “What can one person do?” Much to the delight of our Adversary we sit alone in the nursery pot, wither, and die.  Yet the influence we have as Christians can spread through our families, our workplaces, our neighborhoods, and our communities.  The good deeds we do, the moral character we show, the words we do—and don’t—say make an impression on others.  Those are the seeds we plant, never giving in to the notion that one person cannot accomplish anything.  The attitudes we show when mistreated and the peace with which we face life’s trials will make others ask, “Why?  Can I have this too?  How?”
            Plant a seed every chance you get.  If a six inch pot of dried up mums can spread so quickly, just think what the living Word of God shown through your life can accomplish.
 
And he said, How shall we liken the kingdom of God?  Or in what parable shall we set it forth?  It is like a grain of mustard seed, which, when it is sown upon the earth, though it be less than all the seeds that are upon the earth,  yet when it is sown, grows up, and becomes greater than all the herbs, and puts out great branches, so that the birds of the heaven can lodge under the shadow thereof, Mark 4:30-32.
 
Dene Ward

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls, who, on finding one pearl of great value, went and sold all that he had and bought it. (Matt 13:45-46)
            Over forty years ago we were given the granddaddy of all winter squashes.  It sat nearly two feet high on its belled bottom, but would have been much higher if the neck had been straight.  Instead the neck bent over and made a nifty handle to carry it by, which helped a lot since it must have weighed about twenty pounds.
            We really enjoyed that squash.  It was the sweetest winter squash we ever ate, and as long as you were eating on the neck, you could cut off what you needed and just cover the end with plastic wrap until the next time.  Only when you reached the bell did you need to go ahead and scrape out the seeds and cook it all.
            So last year we decided to look for seeds for that squash.  We are now living over a thousand miles south of where we lived back then, and we could not even remember the name of the person who gave it to us.  We sent letters up to old friends and they had never seen or heard of anything matching its description.  Turns out the name we thought we remembered was not really a name, either.  "King" squash was evidently someone's description of this behemoth which they considered the "king" of all squashes.
            So we gave up on the name and started reading descriptions in seed catalogues.  Most had nothing even close.  The same old butternut, acorn, and spaghetti squashes filled the catalogue pages.  Finally we found a catalogue that specialized in heirloom varieties.  They had something called a Cushaw that was long and weighed about the right amount.  The neck was straight and just as thick as the body, so that wasn't quite right, but it was the closest thing we could find.  So we ordered some seeds.  The color wasn't right when the vine finally bore fruit.  But we didn't give up on it until we had cooked it and eaten it.  This was not the "king" squash we had enjoyed so many years ago.
            So we tried again.  This time we scoured the internet.  A friend became interested and decided to help and he is the one who finally found it.  He didn't find it by the name "squash."  He found it by the name "pumpkin."  And we came to learn that there isn't one name for this vegetable, just several descriptions.  It's a "neck pumpkin" because of the long, curved neck, or it's a Pennsylvania Dutch crookneck squash, once again because of the curved neck, but also because of its origins.  I use it like squash and I use it like pumpkin, and it fits nearly any recipe for those things as long as you follow the cooking instructions.        
          Seems to me that the same things can be true of the New Testament church.  I know people who have found it, not by the sign by the highway, but by matching what it does with what the church in the Bible did.  Not by matching a creed, or a preacher, or even a "name," but by whether or not it followed God's law.  Just cut it open, take a taste and see.  If you go out looking for a name on a sign, you can still find the wrong thing.  If you look only at the outside, you can miss it altogether.  It's the inner workings, the body of Christ following its head, the bride of Christ in subjection to the bridegroom, the vine bearing the fruit of the Spirit, the building built on the proper cornerstone and foundation.
            It can be done.  I know people who have.  It's up to us to be that body, to match the description and taste like the real thing so that anyone who does come looking can find us.
 
But if all prophesy, and an unbeliever or outsider enters, he is convicted by all, he is called to account by all, the secrets of his heart are disclosed, and so, falling on his face, he will worship God and declare that God is really among you. (1Cor 14:24-25)
 
Dene Ward

Most people love them, and they have now become a health food, rich in antioxidants.  But if it weren't for Elizabeth Coleman White, you might never see them in your supermarket produce section, and only in a few roadside stands.  Blueberries are a native American crop, one you could only get wild.  Ms. White changed that.
            She was the eldest of four daughters, born on October 5, 1871, to Quaker parents who were cranberry farmers.  Elizabeth regularly left the house with her father and went to the bogs, learning how to grow cranberries, his only crop.  By age 22 she was an employee of her father's company, in charge of packing and shipping, and occasionally delving into agricultural research, working on eliminating the cranberry katydid among other things.
          But Elizabeth began wondering about growing blueberries.  Since cranberries were a fall crop and blueberries a summer crop, they would enlarge the growing season and the profits for the family business.  Commercial cultivation of blueberries had never been done successfully before.  Then she read an article called, "Experiments in Blueberries" written by a USDA botanist named Frederick Coville.  Her interest was piqued and, with her father's permission, she invited him to come to her farm and continue the experimenting with her. 
            She put out a call to all in her area to find whatever blueberry plants they could find in the wild.  Each one was named, usually after the man who found it.  Elizabeth and her crew chose the plants they thought could survive a transplant and produce.  In 1912, despite all the naysayers, White and Coville were successful, and in 1916, the team produced the first commercial crop of blueberries.
            Elizabeth eventually became known as "The Blueberry Queen" and in 1932, the state of New Jersey gave her an award for her "outstanding contribution to agriculture."  By the 1990s, blueberry production had reached 100,000,000 pounds a year (all information from New Jersey Monthly) and because of her work, we ourselves had twelve blueberry plants that served us well for three or four decades.
           All of which leads me to picking blueberries.  Every second morning in June I would step outside into the morning steam of dew rising off the grass—much different than Ms. White's New England climate--head and eyes shielded from the bright sunshine, carrying a five quart plastic bucket to our small stand of blueberry bushes.  It always amazes me how the morning temperature can be twenty degrees cooler than the afternoon’s, yet within minutes the perspiration is rolling from hairline to chin.  Even the dogs refused to accompany me, though a shade tree stands within mere feet of the blueberries.  They sat on the carport, their bellies flat against the still cool cement and watched, probably commenting to one another about how silly humans can be, especially Floridians.
            It was so uncomfortable one morning, and the blueberries so plenteous, their weight bending the boughs in deep arcs, that after the first half hour I became a little less careful in my picking.  Often as I reached deep into the interior of a bush where I had seen several plump, ripe, dusky blueberries hanging, I simply wrapped my hand around the clump and gently nudged each one with my thumb.  Berries that are ready to be picked will fall off the stem easily, and usually I pulled out a fistful of perfectly ripe ones.  Once in awhile though, a red one appeared in my palm, and even a white or green one.  Oh well, it certainly speeded up the process to pick that way, then toss out the bad ones, and it’s not like we had a measly crop.
            I wonder sometimes if we aren’t too careful in our attempts to reach the lost.  We have a bad habit of deciding who will listen before we ever start talking and our judgments are so different that the ones the Lord made.  He cast his nets into a polluted river, hoping to save as many dying fish as possible; we cast ours into the country club swimming pool, but that is another metaphor for another time.
            Sometimes we come across a blueberry bush with most of the berries still red, not quite ripe for the picking so we pass it by and leave a couple of big ripe ones, just begging to be put into the pie.  It is too much trouble to go after them one at a time.
            Other times we see a bush with quite a few plump ripe berries and instead of just reaching out and grabbing all we can, because there are a few not quite ready, we move to another branch.  No need picking a handful when we might need to throw out half of them.  And so we only reach for the easy ones, the ones that appeal to us because they look like the pictures in the cookbook and are easy to get to.  Those showing a hint of red at the stem end might take a little more effort, a little more sugar in the pie filling.  And because of that we miss some that would give our pie more flavor.
            In another figure Jesus told us to sow the seed wherever we could, not take the time to map it into suitable planting zones.  He said the world is ripe for picking.  “Don’t cast your pearls before swine,” is about people who have had their chance and rejected it, not about us judging another’s suitability to be our brethren.  Where would we have wound up if people had treated us that way?
            Go pick some blueberries.  Grab all you can and let the Lord decide which ones will make the best pie.
 
But when he saw the multitudes he was moved with compassion for them because they were distressed and scattered, as sheep not having a shepherd.  Then he said to his disciples, the harvest indeed is plenteous, but the laborers are few.  Pray therefore the Lord of the harvest that he send forth laborers into his harvest, Matt 9:36-38
 
Dene Ward

We have been passing a lot of things down lately, and that includes a lot of our garden paraphernalia.  Keith has reached the age that he no longer feels safe working for hours in the heat and humidity of an oppressive Florida summer.  One of the things he gave away was his backpack garden sprayer.  Before, he had two sprayers—one for herbicide and one for insecticide.  The backpack sprayer has become extremely uncomfortable to his shot-up shoulder so that is the one that was passed on to a couple who are just discovering the joys of gardening.
            So the first time he went out to spray the tomatoes and peppers for bugs, he forgot to rinse it out from the time before when he sprayed for weeds around the fence.  He never had to do that before.  That is why he had two sprayers.  So he went right out and sprayed my miniature rose and his first tomato.  That's when he smelled the herbicide.  Uh-oh.  Even if he had rinsed it out, the wand still had plant killer in it.  And that is exactly what happened.  The next morning I went outside and my little rose was brown and dead.  So were the tomatoes, but the rose had been a gift from a voice student 20 years before. 
            I doubt that will ever happen again, but that doesn't change the results.  Or so I thought.  A few weeks later I went out to water my flower beds during the unseasonable dry weather we were having, and as I bent over the rose I saw it—one tiny red leaf, the color of new growth on a rose.  A day or two later, another showed up.  And today I had two small rose blooms.  The rose had risen from the dead.  Not two weeks ago I had snapped off all but one brittle brown stem, and now it is thriving once again.
            Do you realize that is exactly the figure the New Testament uses of a person who becomes a Christian? 
            Or are you ignorant that all we who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were buried therefore with him through baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, so we also might walk in newness of life. For if we have become united with him in the likeness of his death, we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection; knowing this, that our old man was crucified with him, that the body of sin might be done away, that so we should no longer be in bondage to sin; for he that hath died is justified from sin. But if we died with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with him; knowing that Christ being raised from the dead dies no more; death no more hath dominion over him. For the death that he died, he died unto sin once: but the life that he lives, he lives unto God. Even so reckon ye also yourselves to be dead unto sin, but alive unto God in Christ Jesus. (Rom 6:3-11).
            Too many times we use this to teach our neighbors that baptism is an immersion.  What we need to focus on is that we are supposed to have died to sin and now live a new life, raised from that death to live a life unto God.  Paul was writing to believers when he wrote those verses.  I have no right to make excuses when I sin, not when I have the power of Christ's resurrection in my life.  Speaking of which:
            And you did he make alive, when you were dead through your trespasses and sins, wherein you once walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the powers of the air, of the spirit that now works in the sons of disobedience; among whom we also all once lived in the lusts of our flesh, doing the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest:— but God, being rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us, even when we were dead through our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ (by grace have you been saved), and raised us up with him, and made us to sit with him in the heavenly places, in Christ Jesus (Eph 2:1-6).  Just as in Romans, you were dead, but now you have been made alive.  Live like it.
            We could go on and on with verses like these.  You may never have realized how many there are, in fact, but that in itself tells us how important this is.  It is also says, "There's no valid reason for having missed this, people!"  Just like my little rose, we were supposed to have come back to life at our baptism.  If we are still wallowing in the grave of sin, something is dreadfully wrong.
 
If you died with Christ from the rudiments of the world, why, as though living in the world, do ye subject yourselves to [them] (Col 2:20).

I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I that live, but Christ lives in me: and that life which I now live in the flesh I live in faith, the faith which is in the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself up for me (Gal 2:20).

…having been buried with him in baptism, wherein you were also raised with him through faith in the working of God, who raised him from the dead. And you, being dead through your trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, you, I say, did he make alive together with him, having forgiven us all our trespasses (Col 2:12-13).
 
Dene Ward