I like the way it sounds when a speaker emphasizes the “ed.” Today is a bless-ed day.
Hello blog-o-sphere, you can call me Monster. I live a bless-ed life, and I know that because of this peach that I’m eating.
It’s the kind of peach that only happens at the end of Summer. The kind where juice drips down your elbow with every bite, where the flesh is soft without a hint of mush, where the act of eating is not merely satiating but a participation in the nostalgia of childhood Summers past and potential Summers future, the kind of peach that is proof of God’s love for his people.
Then there are the other peaches. You know the ones, they are big and they look good in the store, deliciously out of season. But they aren’t organic and local and it turns out they’ve journeyed thousands of miles and spent hundreds of days in semi trucks and ship containers. You squeeze them in the store and hope that, once you take them home, you can keep watch on them and eat them in the peak of their ripeness. Only they inevitably go from rock hard to mealy before you can even say Summer.
Life with God is like eating the perfect peach. Bless-ed.
Life without God is a lot like the long journey of the inferior peach.
I’ve lived both lives. I’ve been trapped in semis and ship containers. I’ve bit into joy and found it inadequate. Too hard. Too mushy. I ate the perfect peach, then decided I was tired of waiting for peak season and chose the April rocks that they call fruit. Then, somewhere along the line, I got used to the inferior peaches. I thought they were normal. I couldn’t remember what I loved about them, so I figured I must have been mistaken: I’m really an apple girl. It’s crazy how good they can make that fruit look.
Well, I just turned 23 and I am tired of inferior fruit. Join me in a conversation about life, blessed.