“Tending The Fig Tree”

We planted our first ever fig tree this year.  It has always been a marvel to me as to how the majestic nurturing fig tree has, through the centuries, been the subject of everything from a central figure in scripture, to references in romance novels and even medieval literature.  

The Fig tree has held a lofty position in life’s venues and imagination.  In one instance Jesus himself admonished the tree for its being barren, although the fig tree did eventually bear fruit. Fig trees are proud in stature- but must meticulously be maintained as they should not be permitted to become too tall.

In a village in southwestern Italy, nestled between the ubiquitous rolling hills and sun-kissed vineyards, stood my Grandfather, Michael, and his fig tree.  It was a singular point of joy and personal pride..  it was deceptively gnarled and seemingly too old to produce- but always proved to be a prolific producer .

My grandfather’s patch of earth was not just a garden; it was actually a sanctuary where life flourished and stories intertwined.  Along with the seasons- this fig tree always held a special place in his heart- serving almost as a symbolic tree of life itself.

On occasion, I had pondered that I would not be shocked at all to think that God, suddenly, could be speaking from it.

Every spring, as he slowly removed the tree’s blankets and wrappings, I was intrigued as he methodically unshrouded the cloths which were placed to protect the tree during the cruel winter months.  All this, in anticipation of its first buds.  It was a sure and certain cyclic event- as it had proven, year after year.

My grandfather, one spring, with the sunlight gently warming his weathered skin, proclaimed  “La vita..(life) is much like this fig tree.. We need to nurture it with love and optimism.”.   I listened intently, as I curiously watched him bend over to gently loosen the rich soil and trim the plant’s branches in order to usher in their awakening from winter slumber.

Every trimming and tending to its leaves was a sacred reminder of the efforts required not just to grow a tree, but also served as a metaphor in tending to a life of growth and purpose.

As the hot days stretched longer and the sun climbed higher in the sky, the fig tree leaves would burst into life.

The leaves unfurled like the pages of a book, my grandfather would often sit near its sprawling branches in the cool summer evenings- sometimes with a cigar in hand and -scrutinizing, as tiny green figs began to form as lovely preludes to an eventual plump fruit, which were assuringly served as balm to his soul.

“Patience,” he would say, “is a truly special thing- especially if or when it produces fruit… You simply cannot rush the fruit; it needs time to ripen, just as we must allow ourselves the time to grow.”

Though the days grew hot and the sun beat down, my grandfather continued tending to the tree with unwavering dedication.  He would water the roots as needed, ensuring that every drop reached the heart of the plant.

The figs swelled, turning a vibrant purple, each one a testament to hard work and resilience.

As autumn approached, the air turned crisp, and the village was painted in hues of gold and amber.  My grandfather would harvest the ripe figs, their slight sweet aroma filling the air.  He would gather them in an oblong basket, savoring the fruits of his labor and prepare them to be shared with family and friends.

Each fig, unique in itself, resembled  seasons of joy and sorrow in life—some sweet, some a little too ripe—but all still part of the journey.

Once the fig tree was ready to settle into its winter rest,  he would lovingly cover its roots with the thick cloths, shielding it from the cold.

As he worked, it impressed upon me, that even in the darkest times, we must protect what is dear to us and always trust that spring will come again.”

Year after year, the cycle continued—spring’s nurturing care, summer’s diligent work, autumn’s promising harvest, and winter’s sleepy embrace.

Now, as I reflect on my grandfather’s fig tree, I recall more than just a collection of gnarly branches and leaves. I see love, legacy, and maybe the wisdom of the ages.

Just as the fig tree stood tall against the changing seasons, so too must we stand firm in life’s ebb and flow, nurturing our own roots and reaching ever skyward, calendar after calendar, season after season..