The people who lived in this house before us planted a fig tree. We were surprised the first summer we were here that it produced so many figs. I tried my hand at canning and experimented with strawberry-fig jam.
This year, it is covered in fruit and I’m hoping to get to it before the birds do. The thing that I love about this tree is that, apart from reinforcing the trunk after our boys climbed on it too much… We haven’t done anything! It just grows and produces every year as if it was in a lush farm or exotic forest and not our mostly-barren-half-dead backyard. It sits in the corner and does it’s thing without a second thought to the dying squash plant or scorching heat. This tree tugs at my heart because my grandparents had a huge fig tree at their farm in Argentina. It was so big that my cousins and I could build forts and castles underneath its branches and be protected from the sun and the boys in its canopy. We spent hours under there and never once did I think about the fruit it gave us. It was simply an enchanting place to play.
I am enjoying the fruit of my grandparent’s faithfulness and prayers. They planted and pruned and watered and, as I hope to do for my children, trusted that the harvest would be worth it. And because of their life, and my parents’ life, I know that it is worth it. I know that Jesus is faithful and blesses generations. The harvest is everlasting and although flowers and trees wither and die, He endures.