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Oct 28, 2023 06:00am

The Fig Tree

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The heat climbed up, over and all around me, like my favorite, coziest, hand-made quilt, as I stepped out of my van. The kids poured out of the sliding doors and took off running into the open lot that held centuries of memories. Their sweet feet tread the very same path my feet once did… and my mother’s before me. I closed my eyes and breathed in familiar comfort from the same grass my grandfather labored over so many years ago (He would have had a fit over the stickers so brazenly invading!), the rose bushes that have lined the drive for at least the last 15 years (now lining a drive to a home that no longer existed), and the hot, humid air of a late July afternoon at my grandparents’ house (just like every eagerly awaited summer visit during my childhood).

I closed my eyes, felt the breeze brush the stubborn fly-away hairs that wouldn’t stay in my ponytail across my face, and imagined the home that once stood before me. I heard the laughs of cousins as we made the concrete stoop our home for hours on end. I saw the bouquet of colorful produce my grandparents pulled from the garden before dinner, displayed along the patio, rainbows gleaming from the spray of the hose as Daddy Alton showered the harvest. I heard the dinner bell ring, declaring a glorious spread.

My husband was directing the children as to how to properly and safely use the yard tools, as the kids bargained with each other over who could use the biggest loppers first. I opened my eyes, and eight years worth of grass covered the ground that once sustained the abode of my memories, before a fire stole the material things that made the home.

We gathered around the fig tree-the perfect hiding place, the fig tree that I mischievously climbed in my youth against the pleading of Mama Nefa who knew I was damaging those perfectly low-growing limbs, the tree that produced the delicious fruit for jars of jelly after hours of labor in the kitchen-the sacred tree under which my husband and I laid our sweet baby, Kendall Tayte, to rest after our hearts were torn out of our chests 15 weeks into our pregnancy, 6 years prior.

We had noticed uninvited guests overpowering The tree on our last visit. The brush was thick, and the poor fig tree appeared to be so much less loved than it really was. It was an afternoon family project that was well overdue.

Before long, I was kneeling beneath the tree, knees doused in mud, pulling at surreptitious ivy infringing on every surface. Slowly, the brush was pulled from beneath the tree, and the tree began to breathe new life. We cut away unwanted foliage, trimmed runaway limbs, and sawed through limbs that stole energy from the more fruitful members.

We stepped back to survey the beauty of our hard work. I gazed upon the 15 foot tree, and I adored its strength. Despite damage caused by a neighboring tree falling on it years ago, it was well-rooted and held itself high with grandeur. This tree was “abiding” just as Jesus urged His disciples, after they left the last supper. This tree displayed “meno,” the Greek word Jesus spoke of-the verb form of dwelling place. It spoke such a perfect illustration of how Jesus urged his disciples to “make their home” in Him, to dwell in Him.

God overwhelmed me with how similar I am to this tree. If I abide in Him, if I get my sustenance from Him, my everything from Him, if I can “meno” in Him, I will bear much fruit. This fig tree didn’t produce fruit because of any effort on its part. It didn’t have to try to produce fruit. In the same way, I will bear much fruit, not on my accord, but only as a by-product of abiding. No matter how hard I try to force love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control-I cannot create what can only come from abiding in Christ. Apart from Him, I can do nothing. Without the power of its rooted dwelling, this glorious fig tree could not produce anything.

We spent our efforts cutting away branches that were not producing fruit, in order to allow the remaining branches the room they needed to produce more plentiful and better quality fruits. In the same way, Jesus prunes us. The pruning is painful. It does not happen quickly.

After hours of sweat-breaking, blister-forming labor, we began to see a beautiful result before us. If only we could personally be pruned in a matter of hours. Yet, so mercifully, God works away at our hearts, chiseling away at our character, pruning us to produce His fruit, so that our joy may be complete in Him.