Ecclesiastes

Taste It Now

A little bird found a pile of seeds.

It was enough for one good meal.

But the bird did not eat.
A bigger pile might be out there.
Maybe behind the tree. Maybe past the fence.

So the bird flew off to look.
It looked all morning.
It looked all afternoon.
Its tummy rumbled the whole time.

Taste it now.

The bird came back, tired and hungry.
Oh no! A squirrel had found the pile.
Half the seeds were gone.

The bird pecked one seed. Crunch!
It was good.
The half that was left was still good.
The bird ate every one and felt happy and full.

Taste it now.

The next day, the bird found more seeds.
It wanted to fly off again.
Bigger, bigger!

Then it stopped.
It ate first.
Then it sang in the warm sun.

Tomorrow it can look for more.
That’s okay.
But first, the good thing right here.

Say it with me.
Taste it now.

What good thing is in front of you today?
A warm bath? A hug? A song?
Go and enjoy it.
Taste it now.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is Ecclesiastes’ enjoyment refrain, which comes back six times (2:24, 3:12–13, 3:22, 5:18, 8:15, 9:7): eat your bread, drink, find good in your work, because that portion is a gift from God’s hand and not a consolation prize. The bird’s search for a bigger pile stands in for the Preacher’s own search through wealth and pleasure in chapter 2, and for the man in 4:8 whose eyes are never satisfied. The squirrel is the book’s harder edge, kept small: what you put off enjoying may end up with someone else (6:2). The page leaves out what drives the book’s case, that everything is breath and everyone dies. Note what it does not say: it never says stop wanting more. It says don’t let the wanting stop you from tasting what you already have.

Everything Gets Its Turn

There’s a time to wake up.
And a time to go to sleep.

There’s a time to plant a seed.
And a time to pick the carrot.

Everything gets its turn.

There’s a time to laugh so hard you fall down.
And a time to cry big, wet tears.

Laughing is not wrong.
Crying is not wrong.
Each one gets its turn.

Everything gets its turn.

Some days are dancing days.
You spin and jump and clap.

Some days are sad days.
Your best friend moves far away.
You miss her so much.

On a sad day, you don’t have to smile.
You can cry.
Someone who loves you can hold you.

Everything gets its turn.

Nobody knows how long a sad time stays.
But it is not the only time.
Other times come too.

Say it with me.
Everything gets its turn.

What time is it for you today?
A laughing time? A crying time?
Say it out loud.
Everything gets its turn.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is the poem in Ecclesiastes 3:1–8, 14 pairs of opposites, the one the Byrds set to music in “Turn! Turn! Turn!”. The poem condemns neither half of any pair; weeping has its time as surely as laughing does, and the page keeps that, so a sad child hears that crying is allowed rather than that it should stop. The page leaves out the pairs about birth and death, killing, war, and hate, and the poem’s sharper follow-up in 3:11: that people sense there is a larger design but can’t see it from the inside. It promises no date for the sad time to end, because the poem doesn’t.

Up You Come

Two friends run across the grass.
Oops! One trips on a root.
Bump. Down she goes.

Her friend stops running.
He reaches out his hand.
Up you come!

Later, he slips on the wet slide.
Bump. Down he goes.

Now she reaches out her hand.
Up you come!

A boy plays all alone by the fence.
He trips on a rock.
Bump. Down he goes.

Nobody sees him.
Nobody reaches out a hand.
He gets up slowly, all by himself.
His knee stings.

Then the two friends see him.
They walk right over.
They ask him to come and play.

Now there are three.
Three friends, holding hands in a row.
Three together are hard to knock down.

Say it with me.
Up you come!

Look around you today.
Did someone fall down?
Did someone play alone?
Walk over. Reach out your hand.
Up you come!

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is Ecclesiastes 4:9–12, two are better than one, because if one falls the other lifts him up, and a cord of three strands is not quickly broken. The book sets it right beside its picture of a man entirely alone, working without end and never asking who it is all for (4:8). The page fences the easy misreadings by having the help run both ways, so a child is the helper as often as the one helped, and by bringing the lone boy into the group. In the book the passage is practical, about labor and safety and staying warm at night, not a promise that friends will always be there.

Plant One More

You have a little bag of seeds.
Which one will grow?
Nobody knows!

You could wait for a perfect day.
Is it too windy? Too cloudy?
If you wait and wait, you never plant.

So in the morning, you plant a seed.
Pat the dirt. Give it a drink.

In the evening, you plant another one.
Which one will grow?
Nobody knows! So plant one more.

Days go by.
One seed pops up, green and tall.
One seed stays asleep in the dirt.

You did the same for both.
Both got a pat and a drink.
The sleepy seed is not your fault.
That’s just how seeds are.

Sometimes both seeds grow!
Sometimes only one.
Nobody can tell ahead of time.

Which one will grow?
Nobody knows! So plant one more.

Say it with me.
Plant one more.

Find a cup and some dirt today.
Plant a seed in the morning.
Then plant one more.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: this is Ecclesiastes 11:1–6, cast thy bread upon the waters, and its plainer image: sow in the morning and in the evening too, because you can’t know which will prosper, or whether both will. The one who waits to watch the wind never sows (11:4). The page fences the obvious misreading, that enough effort makes everything grow, because the book’s reason is the opposite: nobody knows, and 9:11 says time and chance happen to everyone. So the seed that stays asleep is not the child’s fault, and the answer is to plant again, not to try harder at the same seed.