God in the Oranges
03/08/07 18:18
The dark
birds woke me early this morning, all squabbling and
bantering before the sun had peeked above the eastern
mountains. They bounced ridiculously on the flimsy
banana tree leaves outside my room, beating their
noisy wings in an attempt to maintain their perch.
The birds come every morning, but today they are
early.
I step out of my room, closing the rusted metal door quietly behind me, and sit on my chair under the overhanging roof. Save for the dark birds, the whole world is draped in a sleepy silence. It is that wonderful pearly hour between dawn and sunrise. The white buildings, muddy roads, all the little houses fields are cast in that pearly blue that makes every green thing seem to glow.
As I stand up and brush through the banana leaves, the dew splashes on me and all around like rain. It smells a little like rain, too—which is not to say that it has any definite scent, but rather that it tinges the air in such a way that vaguely evokes the idea. It smells cold and wet and earthy, but mostly it smells pure as earth, free of evils and pollutants. The grassy field between the bananas and the orange grove glows softly in the dim light, and each delicate strand is bowed over to hold its droplet of water. With every step, the cuffs of my pant legs become increasingly splattered with dew and grass seeds until they are soaked and feel heavy on my ankles.
The moment I step into the orange grove, I find myself in an entirely different place. Wading through knee-high grasses, I stand among round and stately orange trees on every side, everywhere I look. Each one is huge and still, heavy-laden with fruit. I move past these toward the back of the grove, where the bigger oranges grow on smaller trees. Here, I come to a tree no taller than I am. I reach inside and pluck out its heart, a round, unblemished orange big enough for a meal. I peel the rind off carefully and toss it under the tree. As I bite into the orange, I hear God speak.
Oh, what undiminished joy is mine! What purity of beauty is shown to me this morning, and to me alone! This is the voice of God—this life and this truth. It is no spoken word, no replica of life. It is life itself—the green of the grass, the marble-blue sky, the crystal dew and quiet trees—are these not pieces of God Himself?
I was made to walk in a garden like this and eat oranges all morning. I could do that for the rest of my life and only enjoy it more every day. This part of the world is too pure to be tainted by the fall of man. Nothing has to be killed. No one is cheated. An orange grove knows neither greed nor malice. Everything is easy, beautiful, and healthy here. The very air is a fragrance laced with orange blossoms, and the sky more artful than any artists’ imaginings. Surely no purer earthly joy than this exists, to walk through the orange grove on a quiet morning. God is in the oranges.
I step out of my room, closing the rusted metal door quietly behind me, and sit on my chair under the overhanging roof. Save for the dark birds, the whole world is draped in a sleepy silence. It is that wonderful pearly hour between dawn and sunrise. The white buildings, muddy roads, all the little houses fields are cast in that pearly blue that makes every green thing seem to glow.
As I stand up and brush through the banana leaves, the dew splashes on me and all around like rain. It smells a little like rain, too—which is not to say that it has any definite scent, but rather that it tinges the air in such a way that vaguely evokes the idea. It smells cold and wet and earthy, but mostly it smells pure as earth, free of evils and pollutants. The grassy field between the bananas and the orange grove glows softly in the dim light, and each delicate strand is bowed over to hold its droplet of water. With every step, the cuffs of my pant legs become increasingly splattered with dew and grass seeds until they are soaked and feel heavy on my ankles.
The moment I step into the orange grove, I find myself in an entirely different place. Wading through knee-high grasses, I stand among round and stately orange trees on every side, everywhere I look. Each one is huge and still, heavy-laden with fruit. I move past these toward the back of the grove, where the bigger oranges grow on smaller trees. Here, I come to a tree no taller than I am. I reach inside and pluck out its heart, a round, unblemished orange big enough for a meal. I peel the rind off carefully and toss it under the tree. As I bite into the orange, I hear God speak.
Oh, what undiminished joy is mine! What purity of beauty is shown to me this morning, and to me alone! This is the voice of God—this life and this truth. It is no spoken word, no replica of life. It is life itself—the green of the grass, the marble-blue sky, the crystal dew and quiet trees—are these not pieces of God Himself?
I was made to walk in a garden like this and eat oranges all morning. I could do that for the rest of my life and only enjoy it more every day. This part of the world is too pure to be tainted by the fall of man. Nothing has to be killed. No one is cheated. An orange grove knows neither greed nor malice. Everything is easy, beautiful, and healthy here. The very air is a fragrance laced with orange blossoms, and the sky more artful than any artists’ imaginings. Surely no purer earthly joy than this exists, to walk through the orange grove on a quiet morning. God is in the oranges.
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