Aesop’s Fables Month: The Crow and the Pitcher
If you know anything about me as a writer, you know I have a lot of dream projects—and a lot of words—waiting in the wings. I WANT to write them all at once, but that is simply not possible, so I’m forced to create one (often slow) word at a time. And like the crow in the story, it will be my thirst for success that keeps me writing even when staring at the sheer volume of unfinished drafts can feel paralyzing. I love how this ancient wisdom offers a quiet, enduring reminder of how seemingly impossible tasks can be conquered with a lot of determination and a little ingenuity.
The Classic Fable Retold
Parched and exhausted from a long dry spell, a solitary crow flew over scorched fields in search of water. Spotting a tall clay pitcher resting on the ground, he landed eagerly on the rim. Peering down, his heart sank. A small pool of cool water rested at the very bottom, but the narrow neck of the jug was far too slender for his head to reach.
He pecked stubbornly at the clay, but it would not crack. He threw his small weight against the side, but the heavy vessel did not budge. Desperation whispered that relief was right in front of him yet utterly out of reach. Then the crow paused. Scattered across the dry ground were small, smooth pebbles. Gathering one in his beak, he dropped it into the dark depths of the jar. A tiny splash answered, and the water shifted upward by a fraction of an inch.
He retrieved another stone, and then another. Flight by flight, drop by drop, he repeated the steady labor. He did not flood the vessel in a single sudden miracle; he simply refused to abandon the process. Slowly, the water climbed the narrow neck until it reached the brim, and the crow drank his fill.
Nature Proves the Legend
For generations, readers assumed most of Aesop’s tales were pure allegorical folklore. Modern science, however, proved that, in this fable, the ancient storyteller had captured real-world genius. In a famous laboratory study, animal behaviorists tested rooks—members of the corvid family alongside crows and ravens—with tall tubes of water containing floating treats just beyond their reach.
Without coaching, the birds immediately began selecting heavy stones and dropping them into the cylinders. They understood water displacement, deliberately choosing larger pebbles over smaller ones to raise the water level faster. What seemed like a charming fable turned out to be nature’s own blueprint for deliberate, calculated persistence when brute force fails.
Five Smooth Stones
Scripture records some famous moments of determination and ingenuity that brought powerful victory to God’s kingdom. We have the amazing craftsmen Bezalel and then Oholiab who God gifted with every ability they would need to create the wilderness tabernacle. We have the obedient and determined carpenter Noah who continued to build the ark despite many attacks and a very long timeline. (Beyond the Bible, the attraction in Williamstown, Kentucky, The Ark Encounter, is a great place to learn about everything that went into this feat of ingenuity.)
And then there’s the battle where small, smooth stones were prepared for an immovable barrier. When young David stepped into the Valley of Elah to face Goliath, King Saul tried to weigh him down with heavy armor and an oversized sword. David rejected the clumsy tools of conventional might. Instead, he knelt by the brook and carefully chose five smooth stones for his shepherd’s pouch.
I’ve heard many theories about why he chose five stones, including that Goliath had 4 brothers, but whatever his reasoning, David only needed one stone. With a thirst to see God honored and the disrespectful giant of Gath silenced, David stepped forward with a trust and a declaration of God’s might. It took only one well-aimed stone from his sling to bring Goliath crashing into the dirt.
One Word at a Time
Overcoming life’s towering giants demands unyielding faith, deliberate preparation, and the tenacity to follow through to the very end—even if we only fly with one stone at a time. And sometimes, it simply comes down to applying the fable’s classic moral: that our wits can accomplish what brute force never could, proving once again that “necessity truly is the mother of invention.”
When I sit down at my laptop, the blank page with its flashing cursor can loom like that narrow-necked pitcher. Impatience tells me that unless thousands of words pour out effortlessly in an afternoon, I am failing the call. But books are rarely written in a single sweep of lightning. They are built stone by stone, line by line, one steady sentence at a time.
Each quiet session at the keyboard is a pebble dropped into the jar. Every disciplined paragraph raises the waterline. When we silence the frantic urge to finish everything today and instead stay faithful to the single stone in front of us, the impossible barrier inevitably yields.
I’d love to hear how you can apply this task to your own life or spiritual walk. What are some dreams that seem impossible to reach, and what stones can you carry to raise the waterline?
Here are a few Bible verses that fit today’s theme of getting over those obstacles:
2 Corinthians 4:17 BSB
[17] For our light and momentary affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory that is far beyond comparison.
James 1:3-4 BSB
[3] because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance.
[4] Allow perseverance to finish its work, so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.
Sometimes, it’s just some well-thought, spoken words that turn the tide on the seemingly impossible:
Matthew 15:27-28 BSB
[27] “Yes, Lord,” she said, “even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”
[28] “O woman,” Jesus answered, “your faith is great! Let it be done for you as you desire.” And her daughter was healed from that very hour.
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Aesop’s Fables Month: The Lion and the Mouse
Being small, I’ve often been encouraged by idioms such as “Dynamite comes in small packages,” or “Big things come in little packages.” I may even have heard these as reminders after reading about the tiny but mighty mouse in tonight’s Aesop’s Fable. And to encourage you, dear reader, I’ve included some great events in history where individually small components came together to create huge victories.
See, we are conditioned to look upward when seeking rescue. We scan the horizon for anything massive and strong to deliver us. Deep pockets, big shoulders, or grand miracles. Yet time and again, the ancient wisdom of Aesop reminds us that the cords binding the mighty are rarely severed by giants; they are cut strand by strand by those the world deems too small to count.
The Classic Fable Retold
Dozing in the warmth of the afternoon sun, a great lion was startled awake when a tiny field mouse scurried across his nose. Annoyed, the king of the forest pinned the creature beneath a heavy paw, baring his teeth. The trembling mouse pleaded for mercy, crying, “Spare my life, great King, and one day I may repay the favor.” Amused by the sheer absurdity that a helpless rodent could ever aid the ruler of the wild, the lion laughed and let him go.
Days later, the lion found himself cornered. Snared in a heavy rope net that was set by hunters, his struggle and mighty roars only tightened the cords. Thrashing in vain against the coarse hemp, his pride and power collapsed into helpless exhaustion. Hearing those familiar, desperate bellows echoing through the brush, the tiny mouse returned. Setting his sharp teeth against the thickest knot, the little creature began to gnaw. Fiber by fiber, strand by strand, the mouse chewed until the mesh frayed, snapped, and set the mighty predator free.
Dunkirk: When Battleships Needed Dinghies
History proved Aesop’s point along the cold surf of France in the early summer of 1940. Over three hundred thousand elite Allied soldiers—the armored fist of an empire—were pinned against the beaches of Dunkirk. Behind them advanced the full fury of the German blitzkrieg; ahead of them lay the English Channel.
The mighty Royal Navy was paralyzed. Giant battleships and destroyers could not safely navigate the shallow, mine-choked waters, so it left them sitting ducks for aerial bombardment. The lion was cornered in a deadly net of geography and fire.
The rescue did not arrive in the form of a grand naval fleet. It came in a quiet, ragtag swarm of civilian wooden dinghies, weekend pleasure craft, paddle steamers, and shallow fishing boats. Manned by shopkeepers, elderly fishermen, and teenage boys, these little wooden “mice” crossed the smoking channel again and again. Reaching directly into the shallows where the war machines could not tread, they ferried hundreds of thousands to safety and altered the trajectory of the free world.
The March of Dimes: Deliverance in Pocket Change
A continent away, another towering giant was brought to its knees by an invisible predator. Polio was the scourge of summer, terrorizing communities and leaving thousands of children paralyzed in iron lungs. The full weight of modern medicine struggled in the dark, desperate for resources to unlock a viable vaccine.
The breakthrough was not bankrolled by a single corporate titan or a massive federal windfall. It was built by children. Across America, millions of ordinary families and school kids gave up their ice-cream money to mail single ten-cent coins directly to the White House. The mailrooms filled to overflowing, buried under mountains of tiny, silver offerings.
Those millions of individual, humble dimes funded Jonas Salk’s laboratory, broke the back of the epidemic, and eradicated the disease for generations to come. A nation’s crisis was resolved. And it wasn’t by a single strike of mighty power, but by the quiet power of the collective small.
Never Despise the Small Things
It is easy to look at the immense problems of our world, or even the heavy trials in our own lives, and feel hopelessly inadequate. We might convince ourselves that unless we possess immense wealth, high office, or grand influence, we have nothing valuable to bring to the fight.
Yet God rarely chooses the mighty to accomplish His deepest deliverances. He calls the willing. And, as the saying goes, “God doesn’t always call the equipped, but He always equips the called.” When circumstances leave the strong helpless and entangled, a quiet word of encouragement, a single small sacrifice, or steady, faithful labor can cut the very knot that held a giant bound.
Zechariah 4:10 BSB
[10] For who has despised the day of small things? But these seven eyes of the Lord, which scan the whole earth, will rejoice when they see the plumb line in the hand of Zerubbabel.”
1 Corinthians 1:26-27 BSB
[26] Brothers, consider the time of your calling: Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were powerful; not many were of noble birth. [27] But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.
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Aesop’s Fables Month: The Tortoise and The Hare 🐢🐇
The lesson of the Tortoise and the Hare is often told to children as a sweet reminder to be patient. Yet for those who have walked the disjointed roads of life with burdens strapped to their backs, the fable is far more than a moral on pacing—it is an anthem of stubborn, quiet endurance.
The Classic Fable Retold
In Aesop’s well-known contest, an arrogant Hare openly mocked the deliberate, plodding gait of the Tortoise. Amused by the idea of a mismatch, the Hare challenged him to a footrace across the country path. Confident that his natural gifts guaranteed an effortless win, the Hare sprinted far ahead, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. Certain that his competitor could never close the gap, he stretched out under the cool shade of a tree to sleep off his complacency.
The Tortoise possessed neither swift legs nor a cheering section. He simply understood the road before him and refused to stop. Step by deliberate step, bearing the weight of his shell, he pressed forward. When the Hare finally woke and bolted toward the finish line, he discovered that quiet, relentless perseverance had already claimed the prize.
The Fast Track and the Outsider
High school culture is built for the sprinters. The crowd naturally watches the teenagers who have the luxury of unbroken continuity—those who grow up on paved tracks with intact homes, long-standing neighborhood cliques, and the effortless momentum that carries them into student council, homecoming courts, and letterman jackets. For them, moving through the grades is as natural as running a straight line.
For a foster child, there is no paved track. Bouncing between homes meant bouncing between schools. Every transfer meant walking into unfamiliar hallways midway through the term, trying to catch up on lessons taught differently elsewhere, and knowing deep down that I didn’t fit into any of the tight-knit circles already established. My education became a patchwork of fragmented pieces gathered here and there.
Missing Records and the Weight of the Shell
The heaviest burden arrived through bureaucracy. When you are shifted through the system, paperwork doesn’t always follow. Key academic records were lost in transit, threatening to hold me back and force me to repeat ground I had already fought to cover. Following the standard track was no longer an advantage; it was an anchor designed to keep me behind.
I realized that waiting for the system to fix itself would only cost me time. So, like the tortoise carrying the weight of textbooks on its back, I stepped off their path and chose the self-directed route: studying for the GED.
There was no classroom support or guidance counselor paving the way. In the dry heat of Arizona, with the distant mountains framing the horizon, it was just me and a single tutor, multiple books, and the daily decision to keep going. I sat down and studied the material both with the tutor and late at night after moving to the safe space of my grandparents’ desert home. Subject by subject, we pre-tested until I was confident I’d pass.
Crossing the Line Early
When the test results arrived, the outcome shattered the expectations of the conventional track. While the passing requirement is 60-70%, and the average students barely scrape by with the minimum, my composite score across all subjects was 91%. The tutor was impressed yet unsurprised and encouraged me to believe in whatever I could become. More than that, taking ownership of my education allowed me to graduate six full months ahead of the very peers who had started with every social and systemic advantage. Sadly, GED on a job application doesn’t get many callbacks even with a great score.
But as a funny aside here: One of the schools I attended was while I was at the girls’ home I’ve talked about before. Now, it’s called “Aviva Center” but then it was called “Hamburger Home.” And, yes, I applied to a McDonald’s for work, and yes I listed last high school attended as “Hamburger High School.” And, no, they never called me. 🤣
The race of life is rarely won by unearned speed or easy starts. Privilege may offer a sprint out of the gate, but character, grit, and faith are forged by the plodders who refuse to quit when the hill gets steep. I’m still on that hill in many ways, and I’m thankful for the tutors and encouragers I’ve had along the path. Someday, I hope you’ll all share the joy of the finish line with me when I publish at least two children’s books, two novels, a memoir, and a book of poetry. 📚
Ecclesiastes 9:11 BSB
[11] I saw something else under the sun: The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; neither is the bread to the wise, nor the wealth to the intelligent, nor the favor to the skillful. For time and chance happen to all.
Hebrews 12:1 BSB
[1] Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off every encumbrance and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with endurance the race set out for us.
2 Timothy 4:7 BSB
[7] I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.
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Aesop’s Fables Month: The North Wind and The Sun 🌬️🌞
The Classic Fable Retold
In the ancient dispute between the North Wind and the Sun, the contest was simple: which of them possessed the power to strip a traveler of his heavy winter cloak? The Wind boasted of sheer power, launching into a furious, howling gale to tear the garment away. Yet the harder the tempest roared, the tighter the shivering man clutched his coat around his chest. When the Wind finally exhausted his bluster, the Sun stepped forward, offering nothing more than steady, radiant warmth. Basking in the gentle heat, the traveler loosened his white-knuckle grip on his jacket, unbuttoned his collar, and willingly laid his heavy cloak on the ground.
The Instinct of the Cloak
The traditional moral reminds us that persuasion and gentleness succeed where force and fury fail. But for anyone who has survived a turbulent, unpredictable childhood, a cloak is never just a piece of wool—it is armor.
When you grow up in chaos, your defenses are built to survive howling gales. You learn to tuck your chin, pull your boundaries tight, and brace your heels against any approaching storm. And you always learn to jump at the loud cracks of thunder signaling a new storm is on the horizon. Soon, all loudness becomes thunder to your traumatized psyche.
The great tragedy of an authoritarian approach is the assumption that louder demands and sharper snaps will compel genuine surrender in every subject. In reality, blunt force only proves to the wounded soul that the storm is still raging, making surrender impossible.
The Warmth of the Kitchen
Providence gave me an unforgettable glimpse of the Sun in my very first temporary foster home with a woman named Phyllis.
Phyllis was an oasis of warmth. Though she and her husband Joe were scheduled to travel and could only take emergency placements, they fought for permission to keep me for extra weeks simply because they saw a child who desperately needed sanctuary. In her home, I was not treated like just another foster charge, but like a princess.
One afternoon, Phyllis invited me into the kitchen to help make matzah ball soup. I had never heard of it, let alone tasted it, and I had no frame of reference for the culinary tradition she was sharing. There was no test to pass, no critique of my technique, and no sharp command to keep up. She simply stood beside me, guiding my small hands into the mixture, teaching me with patient grace. In the warmth of that kitchen, the cloak of heaviness I had worn into the house began to slip from my shoulders without me even realizing it.
The deepest warmth, however, arrived on a night when the storm inside me became unbearable. I lay on my bed in the dark, rocking myself back and forth, doubled over with severe stomach cramps born of sheer terror and anxiety. Even in a safe house, a traumatized nervous system keeps the siren blaring. I expected a harsh voice telling me to go to sleep, or a door closed against the nuisance of a crying child.
Instead, the door creaked open, and Phyllis quietly stepped in. She didn’t demand that I stop crying. She didn’t offer a lecture on why I had nothing to fear. She simply sat down on the edge of the mattress, placed her gentle hand on my trembling back, and began to rub in slow, steady circles until the churning knots unclenched and exhaustion gave way to sleep. Her gentleness proved that warmth and understanding creates a safety that force can never achieve.
Snapping Fingers and Howling Gales
That sanctuary made the contrast all the more stark when the winds shifted. In a later placement, authority looked like a woman named Grace sitting in her command chair, snapping her fingers across the room to summon all of us foster kids into compliance. Things like, “Bring me my cigarettes!” Or “Get me a glass of water!” Even a simple, “Hand me that magazine!” was delivered with such harsh authority that we had no choice but to fear what might happen if we didn’t do exactly as demanded.
There was no invitation in her home, only leverage. Every task was a demand, every movement monitored, and obedience was extracted through cold intimidation. The snap of a finger was an order to bow, yet every sharp click did the exact opposite of what she intended: it hardened my resolve to resist. On the outside, I moved to perform the chore; on the inside, I pulled my protective cloak so tight that nothing of my true heart could ever be reached. She had my compliance, but she never touched my spirit.
I wanted to get placed elsewhere, but the one kind person there was my older foster sister Mary. She had a younger sister and two brothers in the home with her. She begged me to endure, so there wouldn’t be an inspection that could cause her and her siblings to be moved—and quite probably separated. It’s not easy to find a foster home that will take four siblings. And Mary was almost 18 with plans to take over the care of her family as soon as she was able. I hope she made it happen.
The Power of the Soft Answer
Force can command the hands, but only warmth can win the heart. Having experienced both the howling gale and the patient sunbeam, the truth of the ancient fable is unmistakable: when we meet defensiveness with rage, volume, or demands, we are merely playing the North Wind—forcing wounded souls to button their armor tighter against the chill.
True strength does not howl; it radiates. It is the steady gift of an open kitchen, the patient touch on a trembling shoulder, and the quiet dignity of a truly listening ear and caring heart that invites the weary to finally set their burdens down and rest.
Proverbs 15:1, 4 BSB
[1] A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.
[4] A soothing tongue is a tree of life, but a perverse tongue crushes the spirit.
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Aesop’s Fables Month: The Boy Who Cried Wolf
Welcome to another famous fable. I chose this one because I referenced it in my first fable post and that made it stand out as a great focus piece. As a warning: this post includes some harsh environment references from my dysfunctional childhood.
The Boy Who Cried Wolf
In classical folklore, the image of the boy shouting fearfully from the hillside is an enduring fixture: the reckless thrill, the mischievous grin, and the spectacle of an entire village dropping their tools to scramble uphill in a frantic effort to save him and his flock create a hard-to-forget scene. For centuries, this fable has stood as a primary warning against dishonesty. Yet when the story is reduced to a simple playground rule about telling the truth, it overlooks the far darker, lasting wreckage the lying boy leaves in his wake.
The Classic Fable Retold
A young shepherd boy, lonely and bored while tending his village’s flock on a distant hillside, decides to stir up excitement by falsely screaming that a beast is attacking the sheep. Twice he raises the panic, shouting, “Wolf! Wolf!” only to laugh and jeer as the exhausted villagers race to his rescue, breathless and armed for battle. But when a real wolf prowls out of the forest shadows toward the flock, the boy’s terrified, genuine screams fall on deaf ears. Convinced it is another cruel prank, the villagers stay in their homes, leaving the flock to be scattered and destroyed.
The Boy’s True Crime
The traditional moral is neat and tidy: a liar will not be believed, even when he speaks the truth. But that only accounts for the boy’s personal fate.
The far greater tragedy—the collateral damage—is what his antics did to the villagers below (and to the innocent sheep). By exploiting the adults’ protective instincts for his own cheap amusement, he drained their empathy and conditioned them to meet urgent cries with rolled eyes and folded arms. He didn’t just ruin his own credibility; he poisoned the trust of the villagers, leaving defenseless sheep to pay the ultimate price when real wolves appeared.
The Burden of the Unheard
I was never that shepherd boy. Growing up, stories like this didn’t inspire me to test limits; they petrified me into measuring every word. Yet the bitter irony of the world the boy built is that cynical ears often fail to distinguish between a manipulator and an innocent child.
My sister and I spent our youth learning that when you are small, your alarms are often treated as mere background noise. Whether it was the throbbing pain of a sewing needle embedded in my foot dismissed as childish dramatics, or the domestic storms in our home, adult skepticism stood like an impenetrable wall.
One scary night, our mother—deep in alcohol and rage—demanded the police come to drag back our stepfather, who had recently walked out to stay with his parents. Slurring insults at the responding officers, she teetered on the edge of passing out. My sister and I stood there, hoping badges meant rescue. Instead, the officers looked at the chaos, assessed that she would soon sleep it off, and told us to simply “hang in there until your mommy sobers up.” To their tired eyes, it was an ordinary domestic squabble not worth the paperwork. They left us in that dangerous place.
Later That Night at The Stationhouse
When the danger did not pass, the unfolding crisis brought a different set of officers, and the reality was entirely different. This time, they took me directly into the police station while they searched for emergency shelter placement.
It was a bewildering world of adult triage. While the two officers grappled with system gridlock—one even expressing a quiet, protective desire to simply take me home to his wife if only he was allowed to get personally involved in his cases—they ended up faced with a dilemma and began arguing with each other.
“You read her her rights!”
“No, you read them. I always have to do the dirty work!”
And when it was decided which officer had to read them (the one who wanted to take me home), he gently explained that the shelter was full, so I had to go back to my mom or be booked into juvenile hall as a runaway. That meant Miranda Rights were required.
My true character was on full display to the two arresting officers and many others at the station at three o’clock in the morning. At one point, an officer told me to plug my ears so the adults could exchange an off-color joke. I did not pretend. I pressed my fingers into my ears so tightly that when the punchline passed and the room quieted down, I remained frozen in silence, utterly unable to hear them telling me it was safe to let go. When they turned around and realized I was still standing there, following their command to the letter, their surprise was palpable. I was an open book in a room accustomed to reading between manipulative lines.
Providence in the Lion’s Den
That grim destination—County Juvenile Hall—should have been terrifying. Instead, providence went to work with a brush of absurdity.
The facility didn’t possess a single standard green uniform small enough to fit my frame. Their only solution was to dress me in a tiny, pastel pink outfit they found in the back of the uniform closet. That morning, during roll call, an intimidating line of tough, street-hardened girls filed past my cell on their way to breakfast. But instead of targeting vulnerability, their hardened expressions cracked. One by one, they glanced at the tiny figure in pink and muttered in disbelief: “How cute… how small… what could a little thing like that have done?”
What began as an arrest became an unexpected sanctuary. Years later, the gravity of that detour landed with full weight when I learned what the unavailable shelter had actually been: McLaren Hall, an infamous institution later exposed for pervasive, systemic horrors against the children placed in its trust.
Bureaucratic gridlock had looked like callous abandonment, but an Unseen Hand had used a lack of beds, a tiny pink uniform, and a hall of unlikely protectors to shield an innocent lamb from a predator far worse. It was the purest lemonade squeezed from some very bitter lemons. And the lemonade became even sweeter when I got moved to a temporary foster home with truly loving and caring “parents” within a day.
Tuning Our Ears
Aesop warned us of the liar whose deceit destroyed his own credibility on a lonely hill, but the deeper moral is one we must live out every day down in our own valleys.
When we allow constant cultural noise, past deceptions, or exhausted skepticism to calcify our hearts into cynicism, we become the villagers who shut their windows and cover their ears. We risk ignoring the literal child standing faithfully with her fingers in her ears, or the genuine plea whispered in the dark.
The remedy for the boy who cried wolf is not to stop listening; it is to cultivate the discernment that sees past the noise to protect the truly innocent.
Proverbs 31:8-9 BSB
[8] Open your mouth for those with no voice, for the cause of all the dispossessed. [9] Open your mouth, judge righteously, and defend the cause of the poor and needy.
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Aesop’s Fables Month: The Milkmaid and Her Pail
Yesterday, I promised you the follow-up to the cliché Don’t Count Your Chickens Before They Hatch from the Aesop’s Fable of the milkmaid. I had initially assembled something built on general references, intending to simply re-read the fable, make sure I had highlighted all of the important points, and then hit publish. Only, things did not go as planned. In a single evening of digging, I uncovered a rich, traveling history that I simply have to share.
The Classic Fable Retold
In the traditional fable, a young milkmaid named Patty walks to market balancing a full pail of milk on her head. Lost in daydreams of selling the milk to buy eggs, hatching a flock of chickens, selling the poultry to buy a fancy gown, and tossing her head at suitors, she accidentally tosses her head in real life—sending the pail crashing down and spilling every drop.
The Compass of a Tale
Growing up, moral tales were never just light bedtime reading to me; they laid down the invisible boundary lines that secured my world. From a very young age, stories like The Boy Who Cried Wolf sank deep into my conscience, teaching me to weigh my words and never shout for help unless I truly meant it. Fables offered a reassuring sense of order—a moral compass whispering that actions carry weight, that character matters, and that, eventually, truth and justice will find their footing.
September’s Journey & The Traveling Tale
As we open September’s journey into Aesop’s Fables, that well-known mishap of a milkmaid named Patty turns out to be only one of many rewritings of the same story. If you dig into the archives expecting a neat, 2,500-year-old Greek script, you will find quite a surprise: the story of the shattered vessel didn’t begin with Patty at all.
Not Aesop?
Centuries before it arrived in European schoolrooms, it began in ancient India within the Panchatantra as a tale of a poor holy man kicking over his jar of rice while lost in a daydream as he rested on his mat. It traveled through Persian and Arabic folklore before French poet Jean de La Fontaine reimagined the main character in 1678 as Perrette, skipping with joy down a country road until her pot tumbled.
By the time English translators named her Patty, our culture had organically woven two separate, timeless idioms around her solitary walk. We have the motherly warning when Patty went to her to confess her spill: don’t count your chickens before they hatch; and the quiet grace we must summon afterward: don’t cry over spilled milk.
Beyond Aesop
Looking across the centuries, the variations are abundant. I found versions with and without the milkmaid being named, characters carrying baskets or pots instead of milk, and wildly different reasons for the final mess. In some, Patty tosses her head in haughty disdain to reject the boys attracted to her new dress. In others, she flips her hair in pride as she prances in front of a rival village girl’s anticipated jealousy.
Yet within every variation lies the same core truth: disaster strikes the moment our full attention abandons the present task for an imagined future.
My Takeaway
What finding all these stories taught me is that humanity is desperate for a moral compass. In the depths of our hearts, we desire a world where right is right and justice prevails. Throughout the history of these moral tales, storytellers subtly altered the characters and settings in ways to fit the needs of their audiences at the time. But the underlying intent never changed: we need to communicate that knocking down the first domino inevitably tumbles everything behind it. We write and rewrite the same moral lessons with different characters because we hope people will learn, take heed, and—if necessary—change their ways.
In The News (Justice & The Law of the Harvest)
When we look at the world around us, this tension feels sharp as we read current headlines. We watch society wrestle between human empathy and the hard demand for accountability when terrible choices are made that cannot be taken back no matter the excuses or reasons for them. The story of the mother who strangled her 3 children has been weighing heavy on me as people make excuses for her deciding their lives had no value. She had choices, like dropping the children off at a fire station. But no matter how torn we are, we inherently know something is broken with the idea that someone could plant corn and grow tomatoes. We know that in truth, each person will reap what they sow.
But Grace
But grace is God’s idea; His answer for our human failures. While He does not change the law of the harvest (we still grow what we plant), He offers unmerited favor to sustain us through the consequences, anchored by the promise of an eternity in His presence.
Salvation won’t undo every consequence (Patty’s milk was still soaked into the dust). But grace helps us look up when we would otherwise be crushed by hopelessness. That grace is a free gift to us, (and free to mother who took the lives of her children as well), but it cost The Lord everything! And because that price has already been paid, He’s waiting now with an outstretched arm to walk with you—even through the consequences.
Hebrews 4:16 BSB
[16] Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.
A Light Finale:
Q: What do you call a camel when it gets upset over spilled milk?
A: A "drama dairy."
😁🐫🥛
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Proverbs 6: The Fable We Forget to Remember
Most of us know the Aesop’s fable about The Grasshopper and The Ant. (If you don’t, you can click the title to read it at the US Library of Congress website.) I’m guessing Aesop got his fable from the wisdom of Proverbs 6. And it makes as much sense now as during either of those eras.
We begin as infants to exert at least some control in our lives. A baby learns the exact cries to get what it needs, be it food, a diaper change, or just some affection. The small child pulls away with a declaration of “I can do it myself,” and the teen shouts accusations about parents who don’t know anything before they slam the door to be alone in their room. And, though every behavior we use may not be the best way to get the control we desire, the desire is built in by God. When governed by His Holy Spirit, it’s part of the fruit we grow in Him.
Without God, though, the demand for self control may come out as a petulant tantrum or some other form of manipulation. The grasshoppers in the picture above use their decision-making skills to play while others work, and they refuse to look at the big picture that includes the coming season and how that play won’t prepare them at all. That’s why the father in this chapter is directing his children to pay attention to the ant, and he even points out how the ant is in control because it’s doing the right thing even without a boss (commander or overseer).
We all want control, but we often forget to remember the responsibility that comes with that control. And we forget to remember what happened to the grasshopper when winter arrived. It’s well-said in “Spider Man” with the quote: “With great power comes great responsibility.” (And FYI, as I looked up the origin of the quote, I found an article with its roots back to the original comics in case you want to read it.)
A great hymn about working like the ant is To The Work, To The Work (Toiling On) by Fannie J Crosby…
And a hymn that inspires the work and also focuses on the short time to do it is called “Work for the Night is Coming” by Anna Louisa Walker Coghill…
Now the father turns the children’s attention to The Creator and how even God doesn’t just put up with foolishness. We don’t like to think of God as being a hater, but in context, we see there is a time for love and a time for hate. The wise father gives the children a list of 6 things The Lord hates and a 7th that is totally detestable to Him. Here are verses 17-19 from The Amplified Bible…
17 A proud look [the attitude that makes one overestimate oneself and discount others],
a lying tongue,
And hands that shed innocent blood,
18 A heart that creates wicked plans,
Feet that run swiftly to evil,
19 A false witness who breathes out lies [even half-truths],
And one who spreads discord (rumors) among brothers.
He ends his message with another plea for the kids to listen and hold on to his wisdom, and this time he adds that they should listen to their mother as well. He says the commands are lamps and lights for them. All of God’s wisdom is a lamp and light for His children today, too.
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