I heard the following story in church when I was in high school. I have preached it several times over the course of my own ministry, and think it is especially pertinent now, August 22, 2025 – though it applies to all ages of human history.
—Fr. Jason
There once was a wretched old woman who lived in a small village in Iowa. It was bitterly cold in the winter and horribly humid in the summer. She’d been a wretched old woman for as long as anyone there could remember, and no one there knew her name. Most just called her the old woman. She kept a garden and small orchard and would tend it daily. No matter the time of year, she wore a long, soiled cardigan and faded, flowered scarf over her hair. The cardigan had always been brown and only got browner; the scarf might have been red at one point, but was now brownish gray. Anyone who made the mistake of walking onto her property was met first with loud shouts and insults, and if that didn’t work, she would begin throwing rocks. One day, there was an ambulance in front of her house, and the next month, there was a for-sale sign in the yard. There was no obituary, funeral, or mention that she’d died, save for the record of her death at the county morgue.
She remembered seeing that brat with the yellow hat trying to grab a pear from her best tree; she’d stood up too fast, eager to yell and scare him off, got dizzy, and when she awoke, she was in a dark place that smelled of sulfur, sweat, and rotting meat. She was hot, hotter than she’d ever been, and she tried pulling her cardigan off her shoulders, but it wouldn’t move. She was afraid, more afraid than she’d ever been, and said silently to herself, “Good Lord.” A quiet, sharp voice answered right next to her ear: “Not here, old woman.” The old woman screamed and tried to run, but her feet were stuck fast to the floor. She was able to fall to her knees and, in desperation, began to pray.
She’d not prayed in years, decades – scores of decades, and she didn’t know what to say. She began to say, “Lord Jesus help me,” over and over, her face buried in the ground, her words muffled, but still intelligible. She prayed for what seemed like hours, days, years…she did not sleep, eat, or do anything else – she didn’t think those things were possible. She cried for herself, and then for all the people she’d hurt – she began to pray, “Lord Jesus forgive me,” over and over, for days, years, centuries…
One day, there was a small beam of light miles above her, but it reached her eyes – a hole in the ceiling. The hole widened, and from the hole there descended a pear, hanging from what looked like a spider web. She prayed all the more, and the more she prayed, the faster the pear descended. It stopped just in front of her face. She licked her lips…it had been so long since she ate. She reached for the pear, holding it with both hands, and when she held it, it tugged her upwards. Soon it pulled her up from the floor; it wasn’t for eating, it was pulling her out of hell, towards the light!
Other souls nearby saw her rising and quickly grabbed her ankles. The pear slowed slightly but still rose into the air. Soon, there was a long line of people holding onto one another, being pulled up ever so slowly by the pear; each soul that was added slowed the pear slightly, but still it ascended. The old woman grew fearful; she felt the weight of all the people holding on to her. Looking down, she saw the whole of hell being pulled upwards by the pear. As they went up, the hole in the ceiling grew larger, until the old woman could see the choir of angels singing, Christ sitting at the right hand of God, and her parents with their arms outstretched, tears streaming down their faces.
The closer she got, the slower the pear pulled her up, and the more her fear grew. Looking down, she grew angry – the people holding on to her were slowing her down and keeping her away from heaven. She was the one who had been praying unceasingly, and this was her pear. They didn’t earn it or deserve it, not like she did. She began to kick her legs, doing her best to dislodge the freeloaders holding on to her. She gladly watched them tumble back to hell, and as they fell, the pear gained speed.
She looked back to her parents, eager to greet them, but they were gone – the hole quickly closed, and the pear grew rotten and fetid in her hands. She was holding on so tightly she smashed it between her hands, the pulp squelching through her fingers. It was her pear. She’d prayed for it. Those were her thoughts as she fell back into hell, into the arms of her tormentors, into the eternal darkness, where there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.