Parable for Sunday
This is a parable written by my husband, Nathan. It is a beautiful piece for reflection this Easter weekend. I'm honored to welcome him as my first guest post.
There was once path from a village to the marketplace. Along the path, in a small meadow, stood a young fig tree. As the fig tree grew, he watched the villagers travel along the path, and saw that they were often hungry and thirsty.
So he stretched out his young branches and produced figs to offer them.
The villagers soon discovered the figs and would take them as they passed by. As they walked on, the fig tree could hear them discussing his figs, whether they were too small or too large, too sweet or too bland, or just the way they thought a fig ought to be. Some would even take his figs and sell them at the market; the village leaders boasted in how their village grew the best figs.
One day, a man came along the path. He was not from the village. As he stopped to look at the fig tree, the fig tree saw that there was something very different about this man traveling alone. From near his trunk, he reached out a beautiful fig to the man. It was the best fig he had ever made.
But the man did not take his fig. Instead he reached in through the branches, and with his finger wrote the name Beautiful on his trunk.
And then he left. And never returned.
The fig tree wept. Fig after fig fell to ground. And then he died.
A few days later, a group of villagers came walking along the path. They stopped to look at the fig tree.
One of the men, an elder from the village, pointed at the ground and said,
"Do you see why this fig tree has died? It is because its figs were rotten."
The other men voiced their agreement and continued down the path.
The meadow soon filled with smell of death and rotting figs, and the villagers chose other paths to the marketplace. The fig tree stood alone, brittle and lifeless, as the seasons changed.
Winter came. And stayed. And then went. The tears of spring fell, and awoke the seeds of the fallen figs.
The meadow is gone now. In its place stands a grove of fig trees. The path has long since disappeared, broken and buried by strong supple roots. The village has forgotten the meadow and the fig tree that grew there. Only its children come, to climb in the branches and eat the beautiful figs that grow there.