Good morning. I would like to tell you about a war that I took part in long ago. No, it wasn’t a matter of fending off hordes of evil invaders, at least I didn’t see it that way. However, it did come down to armed conflict.
My grandfather recruited me to his side for this war. My grandmother watched on, silently rooting for the enemy.
The war I am writing about was the war between my grandfather, whose retirement income was subsidized by several acres of strawberries and other produce, and the birds that would descend on his crops to pick them full of holes.
Actually, that last part isn’t fully true, and therein lies the problem. You see, my grandfather’s main source of summertime sales were his strawberries. They needed to be picked every day with only the perfectly ripe chosen. They needed to be picked early every day before the sun could fully rise and overheat the perfect berries. And so it went, day by day, at 5:30 a.m., the berries were picked and sorted, made ready for sale to the people who knew to come by each summer morning and get the best strawberries money could buy.
The part of the above that I confessed to not being fully true was the “pick them full of holes” part. You see, the birds didn’t “pick them full of holes.” The birds picked each berry that suited them with one hole. They didn’t dine, they dabbled. But to my grandpa’s perfect berry standard, one hole meant that the berry was fit only for the “cull” basket, never to be sold as perfect. This picking “one hole” from twenty berries instead of feasting on a berry or two, consuming them in their entirety, enraged my grandad to no end. It didn’t matter that the birds in question were robins and cedar wax wings, both species considered dear to northern Minnesota life and landscape. To my grandfather, they were the enemy, and war was declared.
If only the birds could have enjoyed their breakfast by completely consuming a berry or two. If they had, grandpa would have endured them, and grandma would have continued to enjoy them. But no, they chose to dabble. To pick a little here and a little there, accomplishing little but destroying much. As I mentioned, I was recruited to grandpa’s side. I was given a 22 rifle with birdshot, and a .25 cent bounty per offending bird.
We too, like those unfortunate robins, tend to dabble at times in the area of our faith. Instead of committing wholeheartedly to what we know is right, we pick and choose. We nibble a bit here and take a little taste from over there. Like the birds, we accomplish little, and sometimes destroy much. Consider please, Psalm 103:1-2.
With my whole heart, with my whole life, and with my innermost being, I bow in wonder and love before you, the holy God! Yahweh, you are my soul’s celebration. How could I ever forget the miracles of kindness you’ve done for me?
Vern