Fearless Faith

Six decades, five states, four varieties and pies too many to count, the saga of a rhubarb dynasty was thought complete, brought to a standstill by last years’ drought and the harsh winter of ‘22-’23. Hills reverently divided and shared — a garden eucharist — found a place at the table among family members, friends, acquaintances and neighbors. “Borrowed,” split, and shared, the various hills were garden currency of a sort. Twenty-four hills from recent gardening years bore both red and green varieties, some sturdy and robust, others tender and crimson hued, all accompanied by the same advice, “the best pies use a few stalks from every hill.” It was a finely honed skill to determine just how many stalks it would take for exactly eight cups of diced rhubarb, two pies worth.

Early season harvests involved serious and compelling judgements on how much to pull from any particular hill in order to keep it healthy and producing well. The compact wrinkled emerging growth was always cause for anticipation. There were plenty of neighbor kids to help “top” the leaves after pulling the stalks, and for at least an hour or so, the unwilted leaves served our fertile imaginations well, leading us to wear them as exotic hats or pretend elephant ears, or to build tents for any innocent dogs or cats that ventured close, whether they liked them or not. Badges of honor were issued for the smallest of cuts sustained by chopping the rhubarb.

Another element of the rhubarb season had to do with the certain knowledge that homemade ice cream would be a part of the finished celebration, not the buttery smooth grocery store variety, but the hand-cranked kind, a little on the grainy side — cream was expensive — and prone to produce ice cream headaches in a moment’s notice. The ultimate pairing, however, had to do with the neighbor’s three-gallon, wooden-staved hand-crank freezer and the rest of the community. The freezer was borrowed and blessed more times than could be counted: weddings, memorials, graduations, birthdays, family reunions. Someone always wondered why a book had not been kept over the years detailing its use, but it never diminished the stories, well wishes and warm relationships that came with it.

The call for someone to clean the dasher meant it was time to pair up ice cream and warm pie, reward for taking one’s requisite turn at the crank. In those moments, nothing could have been better. The promise of there always being left over ice cream was realized well into the coming week. Not a dime was charged for the use of the freezer and it was usually returned in better condition than when it was lent.

The world needs more block parties with monster-sized ice cream freezers for everyone’s use, warm rhubarb pie, and the kind of caring of which people are capable, the kind that breaks down barriers and exceeds expectations. Is Jesus expecting too much of us? Are we up to the task? We need not invoke Jesus’ name at every turn to claim his attentions. He has a way of showing up at the most unexpected moments and places, often with all the wrong kinds of company taking their turn at the crank. Shared celebration is worth an extra piece of pie, no matter the kind.