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I read an article once that made quite an impression on me. It was by a Frenchman…a reporter, I believe. I can’t remember if he lived in the 19^th or 20^th century, but one evening when he was young he was one of many guests at a huge banquet. The long table was festooned with fancy cloths, silver candlesticks, bone china, crystal goblets, and floral arrangements. White-gloved servants quietly and unobtrusively went about their tasks. The young reporter was delighted that he’d been deemed worthy to dine with so many distinguished aristocrats. Most of the guests were between his age and middle age, and all were eating, talking, and laughing with those around them. The reporter was enjoying himself so much he was almost giddy. On his right was a beautiful and charming young lady, and on his left a middle-aged gentleman who was polite and well-spoken, but somewhat reserved. The young man was taken with the young, laughing beauty, and thought she was enjoying him, too. One thing at the banquet, however, seemed incongruous: an old man sitting across the table and off to the right from him. The old man sat slightly stooped with age, and he seemed unconcerned that the laughing young people at the table hardly spoke with him. He ate slowly and wasn’t always able to keep drool from his chin. The flickering candles shadowed the lines on his face and made him look frail and insignificant as he quietly contented himself with his own thoughts.

The old man’s presence began to irritate the reporter, who increasingly wondered why on earth anybody would invite him. The young man turned to the gentleman on his left and asked with disdain and irritation who that elderly, drooling gentleman was. The reserved guest looked with surprise at the youngster, and with perhaps a touch of contempt showing through his impeccable manners replied, “Why, that’s General So-in-so.” The name had so much impact on the young reporter he didn’t even respond to the polite gentleman; he turned and looked at the old soldier with more than newfound respect – he looked at him with awe. The general’s feats during his military service were legendary. He had singlehandedly and heroically done much to save France. Suddenly the reporter felt the dinner party fade into insignificance. The pretty young lady became a petty distraction, and the laughing conversations at the table became inane, worthless trivia. Oh, the things that man had seen and done in his lifetime! And what mindless lightweights the general was now suffering at this banquet! No one deserved to dine with him! The reporter sat there the rest of the dinner and reflected and sobered and matured as he realized a person isn’t the outer shell; a person is the sum of his deeds.

One autumn day at Blue Ribband Farm I sat at the desk in our library working. Whenever I looked out the window at the blazing colors of the leaves in all their glory (pictured above) with the mist rising after a rain shower, I appreciated what I was seeing but was distracted by the paperwork I was doing. However, one time as I looked up my eye focused on a single leaf, and then another, and another on the tree I’d planted just outside my window as a short sapling years before. It was now a giant that performed many tasks, including shading our home from the summer afternoon sun. The individual leaves were mottled with spots of fungus, riddled with insect holes, and torn from the wind, the rain, and hail from thunderstorms. Some leaves were already gone, early casualties in the fight against disease, predators, and the elements. But they had all done their part, and they were all contributing to the glorious scene I often took for granted but was now reflecting on with deepening understanding and appreciation. My dad always said, “The picture solves the problem.” The colorful picture above illustrates the fact that autumn’s big picture of grandeur and glory is actually made up of individual old and dying leaves that are mottled and torn and tired.

I now look at leaves differently. I don’t just see spots, tears, and scars, and I don’t just hear the rustling of dried brown leaves blowing before autumn winds. When I look at old leaves and bare trees, I hear birds heralding springtime as yellow buds swell with promise; I hear meadowlarks and see the green leaves of summer tilting toward the sun and dappling me with shade; I hear jays gathering beech nuts amidst the symphony of color that crowns the myriad successes that are individual leaves. In winter when I hear the crackling and popping of a fire in the stove and see Robin cozying up to its radiant warmth, I think of trees and leaves and the glory of purpose in individuals merely doing their duty.

And I look at Christians differently. I don’t look at their worldly wealth and their superficial physical characteristics; I look at their fruits. What kind of Christians are they? Do they study and know and discuss the Bible? Are they doers of the word? If so, I realize I’m looking at comrades, I’m looking at wonderful and valued members of the church.

We are leaves on The Vine. Our deeds of submissive obedience to Christ contribute to His glory and to the welfare of His church. There is no nobler deed than the performance of one’s duty.

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