When I was in college, I had a fig tree named Abe. I bought him at the beginning of my senior year, from a streetside vendor catering to dorm dwellers who had no idea that plants actually need things...like water. But I digress...
Abe was my first real life experience with a fig tree. Up to that point, I had mainly thought of figs as your Biblical one stop clothing shop for the previously naked mother and father of humanity, the fruit of which was used to make Fig Newtons -- Did anyone else think Fig Newtons were a poor excuse for a cookie when you were a kid?
What is this mushy thing with real fruit filling? Just give me an Oreo for God's sake!
But, again, I digress...
From Abe, I learned why Biblical authors might have thought the fig leaf a perfect accessory for le premier homme as it is very, shall we say, anatomically correct. I also learned that a tiny little fig sapling, takes a frustratingly long time to grow, and doesn't bear any fruit. Other than that, I learned absolutely nothing that could have possibly prepared me for the behemoth fig tree living in my backyard.
That fig tree, which in a house where everything gets named, has somehow remained nameless, was one of the first things I loved about this house. On my first visit to see the house my realtor, a wonderful Persian man, excitedly took me into the backyard to show it to me. It was beautiful, large branches and dark green leaves casting a wonderful shade in the late afternoon sun. Though it was early September, there were even a few ripe figs left on it. Other than the aforementioned Fig Newtons, or as an occasional accompaniment to goat's cheese, I had never eaten a fig before. I had certainly never eaten one straight off a tree. But, at my realtor's insistence, I relented and bit into the weird purpley green fleshy fruit.
Holy crap, that was good!
Though there were other reasons for buying the house, I must admit that the fig tree (and the tangerine tree) featured prominently in my homeowner dreams. What a blessing it would be to walk out into our yard and pick fruit from our own trees!
I would be lying if I said that, looking back, I don't feel a little bit duped. In the same way my German Shepherd (God bless her) bears little resemblance to the bundle of fuzz she was when we got her, that fig tree is nothing like it was on that September afternoon.
To begin with, someone must have pruned it before they put the house on the market, because it was quite a tidy tree. In the two years we've lived here, I have pruned it back twice, and both times the tree has taken it as a challenge to grow back twice as much. This year, it is growing so much fruit that it is literally sagging beneath the weight of it, its branches bowed until they touch the ground.
As I ponder this monstrous maker of fruit gradually taking over its corner of the yard, I find myself wondering: "Can one be overblessed?"
I mean, one can only eat so many figs, right? And, looking at the enormous strain the fruit seems to be putting on the tree itself, you have to wonder if the tree isn't being just a little over zealous with its output. Maybe this massive crop of blessings will be too much for the tree to handle. Maybe it has more fruit than its structure justifies.
Or maybe, just maybe, having "too much" of a good thing, getting more than you can handle...or more than you might deserve, even...is exactly what being blessed truly is. In the most famous Psalm, David describes God's blessings by saying: "My cup runneth over." Sound like too much. Sounds messy. Sounds like exactly how God might draw it up.
The fig tree gave out "way too much fruit" last year, too. We had a few, gave a way a few and fed a neighborhood of possums, squirrels, birds and bugs with our over-abundance. By the end of the season, there wasn't a single fig left on it.
I stopped trying to second guess God's plans and decided to enjoy it a little. I crawled up under the low hanging canopy, where the air was cool and smelled like honey, looked at all God's blessings. Some of them are mine, some of them will go to the neighborhood wildlife, and none of us have done anything to deserve them. One thing's for sure, though: there will be more than enough to go around.
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