I am not a big fan of hot weather. In fact, I spend a good deal of summertime wishing it were springtime or falltime. However, there is one thing that happens only in summer that makes the heat worth it to me: I love to see children sitting out on street corners, under umbrellas conscripted to parasol service and makeshift signs, selling lemonade, soda, cookies, or whatever.
While I have no specific memories of selling snacks on corners, I vaguely remember that I did so. But it is not the connection to my own childhood I love as much as it is a joy in the simple, honest, hope that shines in the beautiful faces of the relatively innocent as they peddle their wares–and the pained look of frustration at every single vehicle that passes without stopping to buy–and the renewed enthusiasm a single waylaid traveler brings.
I feel bad every time I pass them by without contributing to their cause. But whether I buy or not, the mere sight of child or two at the roadside, jumping up and down with a sign scribbled in magic marker on an awkwardly cut out piece of cardboard saves my soul: “Lemonade 25¢”
I see a shadow of my adult self in that little boy or girl with the scribbled advertisement. Like those children, my Father, provides me with everything; I live at his mercy though I do so ignorantly much of the time.
The cookies and lemonade I sell to make money are in reality His, not mine. He created them; he paid the price for them. And yet, I feel no compunction at keeping the money I make by selling what rightly belongs to Him. Often I naively believe that I somehow deserve it–that my almost insignificant efforts entitle me to it. Yet he lets me keep the fruits of my labor–so called–except for a tithe, to hopefully remind me of my indebtedness. He accepts my puny efforts as sufficient payment.
He could simply skip the lemonade stand step and give me the money He spent on cookies, but he doesn’t. He is wise. He knows that what I can learn through the struggle is far more valuable than the money he might bequeath.
We have been bought at a price–a terrible price. Like the child selling lemonade at the street corner, work we must, but our material success, and our eternal salvation, is by Grace alone, after an absurdly disproportionate “all” we can do.
Jon, this analogy is very apt. My own experience points up the metaphor even more clearly. We used to sell something called Oatmeal Fudge, a delicacy of indescribable deliciousness back then (and only very moderate edibility now). No one had ever seen something like this treat, so we made it frequently during the summer, alongside a big pitcher of lemonade, threw both in our radio flyer, and walked down the street. It was all done using the stuff in my mom’s kitchen, but those supplies were an infinite resource, so we never considered them to be valuable. The money flowed in.
I remember thinking “making money is the easiest thing in the world. You just find a good thing, take it on the road, and people will throw quarters at you.”
I only realized later that there was any other column besides revenues. I had never taken into account that there were costs associated with making oatmeal fudge. All of the ingredients were paid for, which fact I never even considered. Making money would have appeared much more difficult if I’d had to put together the capital to buy the original supplies, and then had to set off that investment against our revenues. Only my ignorance of the initial costs, and my freedom from them, made my own undertakings successful. We do not know the price at which our little successes have been bought. It helps to consider that cost once in a while.
“Oatmeal Fudge, a delicacy of indescribable deliciousness back then (and only very moderate edibility now).”
Traitor! Liar! Ex-brother!
Davis, haven’t you realized how similar they are to no-bake cookies, the most pedestrian of all foods? I know, it took me a while too, but it’s true, and you have to try to carry on.
Mmmmm… No-bake cookies…
Combining ideas both here and in A Random John’s post at Nine Moons, can we say that the lemonade is provided by the atonement, but that how great our glory is depends on how much we sale?
We often say that the atonement covers the gap after the fact. We say that everyone who simply hits the streets and puts in a good faith effort to sell as much lemonade as they can will all be rewarded equally in the end. But it makes a lot more sense to me to say that the atonement is just the lemonade. What we do with that lemonade is our own choice and will reap its own consequences.
I feel the appeal of what you are saying, but I think that I disagree. How much one individual sells versus how much another sells is completely irrelevant. The point is the lesson learned–the character gained through the struggle of trying to sell–not the sales themselves.
Like all analogies, this one breaks down at a certain level, but when I wrote it I had this concept in mind.
Eric–
Consider the parable of the servants with 1/2/5 talents–I think that we are expected to “sell lemonade” in accordance with how much lemonade we’ve been given; how gifted/articulate/physically attractive we are (who wants to buy lemonade from the ugly kid with the lisp, eh? 🙂 ), etc. The standard of judgment is our own measure of God’s grace which we have been given, not an arbitrary value that can be used for different people, necessarily.
Lemonade is but a shadow of the glorious drink that is limeade!
ARJ – limeade flavored with cane sugar, of course.
I think this post could be a good summary of the scripture “to whom much is given, much is required” (paraphrasing of course). If you are born into the Minute Maid lemonade fortune with a genetic predisposition to making top notch lemonade, your lemonade will be judged more closely than someone who is genetically deficient of lemonade making abilities.
What you call Oatmeal Fudge is, I believe, what I call Gorilla Poops. I never had it until college, so I learned the term from roommates who introduced me to the tasty concoction. I then shared them with my parents, who found the name repulsive (and there was much eye rolling and murmurs under the breath about kids these days), but the Gorilla Poops themselves kinda yummy.