The tomatoes

"The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims his handiwork." — Psalm 19:1

There was a knock at the back door this morning and Biscuit got there before I did.

It was Henry Beale, who was Earl’s friend for thirty years and who lives up the road past the Hendersons’. He was standing on the step with a paper bag in one hand and his truck running in the driveway and he said he had too many tomatoes and did I want some.

I said I had too many tomatoes of my own, which is true, and he said these were different, these were the big ones, the kind Earl used to grow, and I took the bag because it would have been rude not to and because the tomatoes were beautiful. Five of them, still warm from the vine, the color of something that has had all the sun it needs.

He did not stay. He said he had errands to run in town and he touched the brim of his cap the way men do in this town when they are leaving and he walked back to his truck and I stood in the doorway holding the bag of tomatoes and I realized I had smoothed my hair back before I opened the door, which is a thing I have not caught myself doing in a long time.

I put the tomatoes on the counter next to mine. His were bigger. They were the Brandywine variety, the ones Earl grew in the far row where the sun hits longest, and I do not know if Henry knows that or if it was just what he happened to plant.

The morning went on. I drank the rest of my coffee and let Biscuit out and came back to the kitchen table and opened the Bible and the tomatoes sat on the counter behind me, five of them, warm and red and given.

It is a small thing. A neighbor bringing tomatoes is a thing that happens in this town every August and it does not require a paragraph. But the morning was good. The morning was the kind of good that does not announce itself. And the tomatoes were beautiful.

Lord, thank you for the ordinary kindnesses that arrive without warning.