Thus, they in mutual accusation spent
The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemning.
And of their vain contest appeared no end. 
                                                            Milton

I remember telling myself, Wow, Eve! The big green snake was scary, but he really talked sense. I ate the fruit and I didn’t die. Anyway, God loves me so much I’m sure one piece of fruit is no big deal for him.

Shortly after we arrived in the park God told us, “Enjoy, celebrate, but don’t eat any fruit from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil or you’ll die.” (Adam and I referred to the tree as “the TKGE.”)

I remember I was so happy strolling over to the vegetable garden, my bare feet sinking into the most, fresh-smelling soil. I asked Adam, “If God loves us, why would he deny us fruit that looks so good?”

Adam says, “I don’t know; he has his reasons, I guess. Maybe it’s a test. Anyway there’re so many other good trees.”

“Yeah, but I wonder if the TKGE fruit looks different. There must be something special about it.”

“Maybe, but I’m busy here with the garden, so let’s talk about it later.”

I decide I’ll walk over and take a good look at it without telling Adam. He would probably try to keep me from going or at least insist on going with me, but he’s always busy tinkering, doesn’t like to be disturbed—besides he’d probably be bored.

I’m walking among the oak, apple and pear trees, glowing orange and purple maple leaves spiraling down in front of me. Then I spot the TKGE. It seems kind of ordinary, really, but with big red fruit. No fence around it or anything. I think, I’ll just walk over and look at it; I won’t touch it.

Then I see a form gliding through the nearby trees, now revealed, now hidden by the leaves.  Smooth, shiny green skin, dark unblinking eyes, looking steadily at me—I’m fascinated. It’s like the dirty parts in a movie—you try not to look, but you do anyway.

I startle when he speaks —“The fruit trees are great, aren’t they? Did God say you can’t eat from any of these trees?”

“Oh no, actually we can eat from all of them, except we can’t even touch that Knowledge Tree there or we’ll die!”

“You won’t die! It’s just that he knows that if you eat it you’ll have great knowledge like he does. He’d rather keep you in the dark. I’ve been around here for a while; I know how these things work. Anyway, you’re special. If God loves you, he wouldn’t want to deny you anything, would he? What’s the point of creating the big red fruit if he didn’t mean for you to eat any?”

His slender head now looms over my shoulder. He seems so logical, trustworthy, the voice of experience. I’m smelling a pungent perfume, feeling the pull of his eyes, and sensing the sweet fruit. I kind of wish Adam were here with me….

All at once, I reach out my hand, grab the fruit, and eat—it explodes sweet in my mouth. I eat the whole thing but, not wanting to litter, I save the core. The snake has disappeared. And I’m not dead! I can’t wait to tell Adam.

I joyously run back to find Adam tilling the kale and Swiss chard. (In those special days, guys ate green, leafy vegetables.) “Adam—I ate the TKGE fruit and look, I didn’t die! We must have misunderstood what God said. It tastes so sweet!”

“O boy! Who’ve you been talking to? Do I have to go everyplace with you?

“Well, you were busy and I was only going to look at it.”

“But what’re we going to tell God? He said don’t eat it.”

“Why did he put it there if he didn’t want us to eat it?”

His face clouds, he hesitates, then suddenly he grabs the core from my hand and eats it. Just like a guy, I think. But is he really hungry? Or just so dependent on me that, realizing I might be kicked out of the park, he wants to be sure he’s kicked out with me?

Now Adam starts looking me up and down—and up and down. I blush. Strange; I’ve never felt self-conscious before. I find some fig leaves and use fibers to sew them together to make loincloths for us. As an afterthought, I sew two extra small round discs for me. We walk deeper into the forest because, for the first time, we just want to be alone.

After a couple of hours I hear God calling out: “Adam, where are you?” (Why doesn’t God call for both of us?) We walk deeper into the forest, playing hide and seek.

God finally catches up with us and says to Adam, “Why are you hiding?”

So my smart husband comes up with a great excuse: “I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid.”

God asks, “Who told you that you were naked? Did you eat the fruit I told you not to eat?”

Adam gets a pained look on his face, immediately confesses, and then passes the buck: “Yep, I did, but this woman that you gave me insisted that I eat it, and you know her—I just couldn’t say no.”

At this point God rolls his eyes, gives up on Adam, and turns to me. I boldly re-pass the buck: “Well, the serpent told me to eat it, and you know weak little me—no sales resistance. Adam wouldn’t come with me—he didn’t even warn me.”

God finds the serpent and tells him the bad news: “Henceforth you’ll be looking at life from shoelace level. And people will step on your head.” The unblinking eyes slink off to disappear into the greenery.

Then he turns to me: “It will hurt you to bear children, and now your husband will be telling you what to do.”

“You mean Adam? How well do you know this man? He can’t even change his mind without consulting me. Can’t follow instructions, no initiative. How could he be my ‘leader?’”

“Well, Eve, you know he’ll be ticked if he isn’t in charge. And even though you have to pretend he’s the leader in public, you can always influence him at home. Trust me; this’ll work.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to try to keep Adam from screwing up.”

Then God turns to Adam: “Failure of leadership! Why didn’t you stop her from going? Why didn’t you tell her not to talk to strangers?”

Adam replies,” I’ve tried that before, but you know how hard it is to tell her anything.”

God says, “You thought life was complicated in the garden. But now you’ll have to dig in harder soil, fight sharp thorns and predatory insects and perform sweaty labor. It isn’t going to be a walk in the park.” Adam hung his head and thought about his easy work—the garden vegetables had almost sprung up by themselves.

God replaced our fig-leaf loincloths with the skins of slain animals, kicked us out of the park and posted a guard against our returning. My face turned red when Adam asked God if he could eat the meat. Then he made a fateful decision that influenced all of his male descendants—he promised himself, I’ll never willingly eat green leafy vegetables again. I remember those early “outside” days. We hung on the heavy lattice fence like banished traitors, looking in at the beautiful park we could never again enter. Brambles had breached the fence and the grass inside was browning. I thought, How ungrateful we were; how much we took for granted.

Adam turned to me, “Eve, why did you wander off like that? Anyway, who ever heard of a talking snake? Why didn’t you ask me before you ate the fruit?

“Well, why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you put your foot down? Then I never would have gone. Or at least, you should have insisted on going with me. Failure of leadership.”

 “Eve, Didn’t you even stop to think? You knew God had a good reason to prohibit that tree.”

“Well, maybe, but it’s not my fault you ate the fruit that I gave you.”

And so we passed the hours in fruitless arguing.

How was I to know that my simple decision would affect our grandchildren’s grandchildren? That they would only be able to dream about the shining park? They’ll blame us for eating, but I’ll bet they would’ve done the same thing. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.