Green Tomatoes

I’m in for a good crop, I foolishly assumed. A couple at church had given me two tomatoe plants. I put them into bigger pots, mixed in manure, wood ash and urea (my speciality) and put them in the back yard’s sunniest spot. Sure enough, the little plants became like bushes, and they flowered from May to October. They bore lots of tomatoes, which to this day make the stems groan under their weight. There’s only one problem- the tomatoes are still green. Perhaps I should pick them and leave them to mature on some sunny windowsill. Perhaps I should wait a little longer. Or I could join the middle class and eat them anyway, claiming that, despite their awful flavour, they are more natural and organic.


I cannot help but think that these plants are pictures of me. Outwardly, there’s fruit to see and I look spiritually healthy, but where is the fruit that’s ripe? Where are the tomatoes ready for the salad bowl? Too much fruit in my life is still in its ‘development’ stages; it exists in its potential state, green and hard, but unfit for consumption.

The winter is coming, and the green tomatoes are unlikely to ever ripen. Thankfully, I found some ripe ones hidden among the leaves. There’s hope for me yet.