Congregation Emanu-El of Westchester: Sermon Archives

Yizkor- October 13, 2005

In years past I have often shared an image, of a field of lavender in rural Provence and a stocky, weathered, farmer by the name of Larre. This year after a year's hiatus, I returned to Provence and, of course, made the journey to Larre's house.

The road leaves the town of Methamis and meanders by the side of a deep gorge. At first vineyards dominate the countryside, eventually giving way to dense orchards of cherry trees. Beyond those cherry trees with their dark green leaves, the land becomes too rugged for cultivation. Evergreens lean precariously over the rock strewn gorge, struggling to hold on to the barren land. The route gradually eases at the red brick hostel of St. Hubert where a flock of geese huddle in their pen, oblivious to their coming fate --- tins of foie gras.

Another half hour and Larre's farm comes into view. You can't miss Larre's house, a faded stone structure with wooden pitch forks lining the outside walls. A scene out of Pagnol or Giono. And, on the road in front of the house, a tiny wooden table displays bottles marked, Essence of Lavender. Card board containers with colorful farm scenes are filled with lavender honey culled from bee hives nestled into the crannies of stone walls.

On every side of Larre's home fields of lavender stretch to the distant horizon. This is the view that draws me to Provence in late July --- the view of fields of lavender, their muted color like a beautiful canvas laid across the ground. I love to wander through the rows, to be embraced by the rich smell of lavender rising from the metal chimney of a nearby refinery.

But this year, as I parked on Larre's dirt driveway, surrounded by his yapping truffle hunting dogs, something was missing. The color. That magnificent lavender color. The fields were brown. Barren.

Larre rushed out to greet me, adjusting the suspenders of his faded overalls. The customary kiss on each check; my smooth skin rubbing against his stubble.

"Bonjour! Bonjour! My American friend."

And then, as he saw me scan the fields he added: "You are too late. We already harvested the lavender. 10 days ago."

"But why so early?" I asked. "Usually you cut the lavender later in the season."

Larre laughed. "But the lavender was ready. The rain. The heat. The lavender ripened early. We couldn't wait."

Noticing my disappointment he excused himself and, with his short gait, retreated into his home, returning a moment later with a bouquet of lavender. Handing me the sprigs he said, "I saved some of the lavender. A cadeau, a gift. For you. Next year come earlier."

These remnants of the lavender harvest sit on the gnarled wooden desk where I write. They are a reminder of Larre's words. "Next year come earlier." A reminder of the unpredictability of time, the realization that sometimes the harvest comes too quickly. Too early.

As we prepare for Yizkor may we remember the field of lavender and never forget that we may not know when the harvest will arrive. The harvest of the lavender. The harvest of our years. Do not wait to enjoy the colors, the fragrance. Do not wait to savor the beauty in every day, the sunrise ascending over our own landscape where families love and where we strive to fulfill individual dreams.

And, when the harvest does come? What then? Then we still hold on to a bouquet of memories - and memories never die. Let the bouquet of memories awaken for us the beauty that was there; the promise of a new springtime when, once again, life will burst forth in our hearts. A different life than that which went before? Yes. Of course. But there is always beauty, happiness, contentment waiting to blossom within --- luxuriant as the field of lavender.

Savor the summer. Accept the harvest. Treasure the memories.