The Tree, the Table, and the Testimony of Money

The Tree, the Table, and the Testimony of Money

In a quiet valley nestled between mountains and rivers, there lived a farmer named Eliav. Years ago, he planted a grove of trees high up on his hillside, where the soil was rich and the air full of birdsong. But the seeds—ah, the seeds—he did not create. One day, while walking by a stream, he found them scattered like forgotten treasure under a large cedar. He took them home with wonder in his heart, whispering, “These are gifts from God.”

He planted them, tended them, and waited.

Years passed, and the trees grew tall and strong, drinking from the rain, dancing in the sunlight, and breathing the breath of heaven. When the time was ripe, Eliav cut one tree—just one—respectfully and with prayer. He sold the wood to a man named Simon, who owned a small but beloved restaurant in the village below.

Simon took the wood and built new tables and chairs for his diners. His restaurant had always served food made with care, but now it had the warmth of the mountain’s wood and the story of the farmer behind it. Customers came, drawn by the food, the fragrance of cedar, and the peace that lingered in the place.

Each meal they paid for was more than just a transaction. It was their way of saying, “Thank you for preparing food I didn’t grow, cooking with fire I didn’t spark, and serving with hands not my own.”

With that money, Simon paid Eliav for the wood. Eliav took the money, humble in his heart. He used it to send his daughter to school in the city, where she studied medicine, and his son learned engineering. The rest he saved for seeds and tools.

Simon, too, used what remained. Some he saved, and some he invested to expand his kitchen. He hired a young baker who had long dreamed of making sourdough with wild yeast. The restaurant flourished, not with extravagance, but with purpose.

And the circle went on.

The customers, nourished by the meals, went home with full stomachs. Some worked as carpenters, some as teachers, others as shepherds and weavers. They earned their living and came back again, bringing more stories, more thanks, and more money.

Money, in this story, was never the goal. It was a certificate of help—a record of who helped whom, and how we honor each other’s labor.

Yet the foundation of it all—the rain, the sunshine, the soil, the seed—were not made by farmer or cook. They were gifts from above.

So while human hands could till, plant, cook, and serve, they could never create the wind that carried the rainclouds, or the sun that fed the leaves, or the life within a seed.

In the end, Eliav taught his children this lesson:

“You may earn money through honest work, but you cannot buy the breeze, the sunrise, or a single heartbeat. Money is man’s measure of giving, but creation is God’s generosity. Never confuse the two.”

And so, in that village of mountains and meals, money flowed like a river—but always downstream from grace.