Don't Judge My Judging

I thought I had overcome, shall I say a pet peeve.  I had purged this negative from my very being, until I heard myself recount at our Oregon family get together, the latest scar on my pet peeviness.  (I just made up that word and I think it should be one).  While discussing service in the Church, a switch turned on my memory bank and connected to my mouth.  I shared how Walt signed us up for recent apricot picking at our church orchard.  We dutifully arose at 5:30 so we could be there to pick early before the sun got hot.  We were told to pick the fruit that was ripening,  (duh) what color, (another duh), and most importantly to not pick unripe fruit.  (triple duh)  Leave it to ripen for another days picking.  Walt and I carefully picked many trees, and when we went to dump our buckets,   I heard something like this.  "There ya go Samuel, Sariah, Nephi, Rachel, and Moroni (all churchy names) go pick those.  You can reach those."  Yep, there was Sister Mommy pointing her little saints at the trees we had just picked.  She didn't say pick only the ones that HAVE AN APRICOT COLOR and LEAVE THE GREEN ONES.  Of course, the next sounds we hear are huge green apricots thudding into buckets.  Apricots that will be put into discard bins when they go to the cannery.  As I went back to the trees, I gently said "those trees have already been picked, there are some further up the row that have ripe fruit."  I may as well have been talking to the apricot tree.  Finally, we went to trees along the outside of the orchard where I did not have to watch the desecration of precious fruit.  It was getting close to time for us to leave, so Walt and I went to dump our perfect harvest, when I saw two women who had just arrived.  The older women had just applied lipstick and looked like she had her hair done for a special occasion.  It seemed as if the other one was wondering if she should have worn gloves to cover her polished phony nails.  Then they started to pick a tree that by this time did not even have a hint of color.  Mustering my smiley face and using my  softest inside voice, I said, "oh, those trees have already been picked.  There are some further up the row that have ripening  fruit on them."  Sister Plastic turned and said,  "There are apricots all over this tree to be picked." Next sound...thud, thud, thud.  When I got to the truck and slammed the door, I told Walt he was NEVER to sign me up to pick in the orchards again.  I will thin, I will weed, I will wind row after pruning, but a farm girl like me can't watch the murder of innocent fruit.  He laughed, but I meant it.  As I recaped this experience to my brothers and sisters in Oregon,  and seeing the smiles on their faces, I realized that those saintly pickers I judged, were going much further on the celestial trail than I was.  They filled their assignments, plain and simple.  They were asked, they showed up, and they will be blessed.  Just because they were agriculturally challenged, did not give me the right to judge.  And to those I share my personal pet peeve, don't judge my judging.