That autumn no one knew why she worried about the rain,
but she felt winter in the wind, saw the sky darkening. At night she heard hail
on the roof—hail she feared would form, hail the size of silver dollars. In the
morning, sunshine taunted her as she picked her way to the orchard; apples lay
everywhere, a sea of red. She lifted one and peered at it—bruised, broken, its
misshapen body the color of blood. She dropped the fruit and turned toward the
farmhouse, defeated. How could a family survive without an income? Suddenly she
remembered a recipe: Sweet, tangy, tart—a delicious drink. She looked up, now
beholding the beaming sun as a token of hope. “I thank Thee, Lord, for the wind,
for the fallen fruit waiting to be pressed into cider to sell.”
