All Flesh is as Grass

All flesh is grass, and all its loveliness is like the flower of the field.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
When the breath of the Lord blows upon it;
The people are indeed grass!
The grass withers, the flower fades,
But the word of our God stands forever.

My elderly neighbor, Mr. Rogachefsky, had a beautiful old apple tree curling over his driveway. He was a nice man and invited me to pick and use as many as I wanted. In the fullness of time, he went into a nursing home and eventually passed away. His home was purchased by a ‘house flipper’.

My neighbor Mary and I were walking around the corner when we were surprised by the ruins of that beautiful, healthy old tree, sawn into logs, its apples freezing into an early snowfall. While change is inevitable, it’s not always good. Today, five little popsicle shrubs march along the side of that house, and my pie apples are gone forever.

But one day, long before that happened, I saw a little boy pulling down icicles from the porch of Mr. Rogachefsky’s house.

“Hey, kid, stop that!” I yelled. “It’s dangerous!”

“Don’t worry!” he called back, and pulled off his hood to show me he was wearing a helmet underneath. It was Mary’s son, who was always prepared for any eventuality.