| Sunny Side Up July 12, 2006 �2006, Kathleen Gibson Why all the peach fuzz? Do you believe in heaven? I do. And I believe all those things we imagine as the highest of delights on this crusty old planet will pale in comparison to what waits there. I'm saving up questions to ask God when I arrive. "Why'd you keep holding onto us when we messed up so badly?" for one. And, "How're all the Christians going to get along up here?" And, "What kind of fish really swallowed Jonah?" I have other questions too. Like the problem with peaches, for one. Almost every summer during my B.C. childhood my mother canned peaches. Freestone, if possible. The fruit separated from the pits as easily as a letter slides from an envelope. Clingstone, with their firmer flesh, may be better for canning, but freestone prepare a whole lot easier. I can still see the jars arranged on the counter, glowing like amber beads on a giant's necklace. I don't remember helping her, except to count the snaps of the sealing lids. I love a good peach but I hate touching it. The fuzz makes me crazy, like fingernails on a chalkboard effects some people. I know God put it there, but I'd rather he hadn't. That's why I'm going to ask him, "Did you really have to wrap the peach in fuzz?" I can peel a peach in a sink full of water if I talk myself through every step. "Steel yourself. Think about chocolate. Peel quickly. Concentrate on the fruit, not the peel." It's only when a peach attacks suddenly that I can't handle it. When my children were younger, they teased me mercilessly. Sometimes they chased me around the house, peach in hand. Or they'd stand directly in front of me and take a bite, fuzz and all. That's the worst, imagining the feel of that stuff clinging to my throat walls. Whenever I buy peaches I always tear off a produce bag and use it as a glove. I was doing this once when another woman joined me at the peach bin. She watched me for a second, tore off a bag, stuck her hand in, and started choosing her peaches. I said, "I'm only doing this because I can't stand touching the fuzz, you know." She froze, then whipped off the bag. Scorn dripping from her voice like peach juice off one's chin, she said "I thought we were supposed to do that." Bare-handed, she dumped in about a half-dozen peaches and stalked off. Oops. "Now, Lord, about the peach�" I'll say, in heaven. But something tells I'll never ask that question. I'll be too busy worshipping the God who created both peach and the orb called earth it grew on. Whose glory I saw reflected in every bit of beauty I saw and loved here. I'll be greeting those who've made their way from our planet to heaven on the only bridge that connects the two - the cross-shaped one, where Jesus died. And all that fuzz won't matter a tad. Respond Home |
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