Chapter 24 | Different
Lavi and I stood barefoot in the upper press basin, crushing grapes beneath our feet while the last light faded gold across the vineyard. Workers had spent the afternoon cutting the clusters and hauling them down in wicker baskets, and now the fruit lay piled around our ankles in dark purple heaps.
Juice streamed through the carved stone channel into the lower vat below while the sweet smell of crushed grapes thickened the cooling air.
Lavi wrinkled his nose as another cluster burst beneath his heel. “Why do we crush them with our feet?”
I smiled faintly, reaching for another basket. “Because it breaks the skins without ruining the fruit. The juice runs cleaner that way.”
He considered this very seriously while stomping beside me. “So first we crush them… and then they become wine?”
“Eventually,” I said. “First the juice rests in jars. Then comes the waiting. A great deal of waiting.”
“I hate waiting.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Well, to you, anything that takes longer than an afternoon feels unbearable.”
He grinned at that and began humming one of the old harvest songs Ima used to sing while she worked. After a moment, quietly, I joined him.
My gaze drifted to the darkening vats below, to the crushed fruit slowly giving up something sweeter than what it had been before.
I thought of the way I had clung so tightly to control, to certainty, to being right. I thought of the hard places in me Jesus’ words kept pressing against.
Perhaps that was the thing about crushing. Perhaps some things could not become what they were meant to be until they first broke open.
By the time we washed and came inside, the smell of grapes still clung to our skin.
~
The next morning, I rose with the strange sense that something in me had already begun to change. After walking the rows, I called everyone to the courtyard—Baruch, Yoram, the two other day workers, Abba, and Lavi too.
I cleared my throat. Words had never been my favorite tool.
“You have worked like family,” I said. “And I have been… hard. Distant. Sometimes unjust. I thought the only way to keep this place standing was to hold it so tight nothing could slip free.” I glanced toward the rows we’d opened for the wind. “I was wrong.”
No one moved. Baruch’s mouth did that sideways thing that isn’t a smile but wants to be.
“I’m going to be different,” I said. “We are going to be different—because I believe the Messiah is walking our roads, and if that’s true, then the way we tie a knot, weigh a jar, and share a loaf matters more.
” I swallowed. “Wages at dusk, not delayed. Corners left for gleaning, even when it pinches. If you’re short on bread, say so. If I am short on mercy, say so.”
The workers stared like I’d grown another head.
“And when the men who follow Him are not traveling with Him,” I continued, “they will work here.”
Now the murmur came.
“Yes,” I said, before doubt could creep in. “We will have help from our friends who follow Jesus. And though we are still rebuilding, I would like this vineyard to support His ministry in whatever ways we can.”
I swallowed. Abba’s eyes flicked to me, understanding.
“This vineyard is family,” I finished. “And family stands together.”
I turned to Baruch. “You have stood between us and trouble more than I knew. Be my foreman. Lead the others. Tie what you think is wise.”
The old stiffness rose in my spine out of habit.
I let it loosen.
“I trust you.”
His mouth attempted a strained smile. His eyes flicked to Lavi and back.
“We’ll keep the boy’s hands busy with right work,” he said gruffly.
I looked down at Lavi. “And you,” I said, tapping his shoulder, “are my apprentice. Not my shadow. Say it.”
He straightened until his curls wobbled. “I am Talia’s apprentice.”
The men barked a laugh, and it felt like the first clean sound since the sky split.
I lifted both hands. “Then back to it. Today we work. Tonight we rest.”
They broke apart with purpose.
I stayed where I was, letting the new word settle into my bones:
Different.