Since I was a child, I have had an aversion to figs. This, I believe, is the fault of my mother. She who really liked Fig Newtons and, believing they had nutritional value, made the little gooey cookies a staple in our diet under the guise that they were good for us. They are not. I never liked them; they were just too sweet and had a somewhat bitter aftertaste. When she put them on our plates or presented them for a snack, I would eat the soft cake-like covering and throw the fig filling away. Well into my adult years, when someone mentioned figs my face would wrinkle and "Yuck!" would jump from my mouth.
Our neighbor has a fig tree growing in his yard. Now, to appreciate this story you should know a little about him. Yard work is not his strong suit. Since his mother died over ten years ago, cutting the grass and cleaning the trash from the yard has only occurred annually, like Christmas or birthdays. Over the years, when the neighbors have had as much as they can take and the City of Seattle has issued enough warnings and treats of $500 fines, he calls his friends together and supervises a yard make over. Once the debris has been removed, the beautiful bounty of foliage planted by his mother stretches forth breathing gorgeous sighs of relief to have been given one more season of life. Standing above the rubble is a fig tree. It is slightly curved and its branches bend heavy with fruit in the middle of summer. Some fruits even lean seductively across our fence calling us to pluck and taste.
During my first summer in Seattle, my partner, Patricia, succumbed to the temptation of the fig tree. She picked several fruits and offered me one. Like Adam in the Garden of Eden, I resisted... at first. Figs, in my book, were not to be eaten. Unlike the garden of Eden, however, Patricia had not received a warning NOT to eat the figs. Our neighbor, in fact, encourages us to eat any of the fruit that grows in his neglected Eden, which includes juicy plums, pears, and Asian and Washington apples. The more we eat, the fewer left to rot or be eaten by the neighborhood raccoons, birds, and rodents. It's kind of our duty. Unable to resist any offering of goodness from Patricia for long, I eventually tasted a freshly plucked, soft and seed-filled fig. Oh, what a glorious fruit!! Nabisco should cower in shame for turning such a delightful morsel into the disgusting Newton. What a glorious fruit!!
Soon after tasting my first real fig a friend told me a story about his grandfather growing a fig tree from a branch broken off an established tree. He told me about how that branch eventually grew to a full grown, fruit-bearing tree that provided figs for his family for many years. The scientist and newly seduced fig eater in me could not let this pearl of wisdom go untested. I cut off about four (just in case one didn't work) branches and stuck them in the soil at various places in our yard. I figured all I needed to do at that point was wait, assured that figs would be raining down in no time. Realistically, I knew that it would be a couple of years before I would be swimming in figs, but I could wait. Figs would be a-coming!
Earlier that year Baxter, a mixed bred of black lab and border collie, had entered our family. He is usually an uncommonly well-behaved dog with one weakness: he loves sticks. Big ones, little ones, crooked ones, straight ones, sticks hanging from trees or stuck in the ground. One hot summer day, Baxter discovered my fig trees. To him the were mere sticks in the mud. What was once a source of pure joy and eager anticipation for me had become a game to him. A game!! One by one Baxter pulled up my infant fig trees and ran around the yard. The more I yelled and chased him to retrieve my fig fortune, the faster he ran. The more I chased the tighter he bit into my babies. Needless to say, he won that game. When it was over, all that was left was one stick with two partially chewed little leaves hanging on for dear life. I was devastated. At the same time I knew he had no idea of what those sticks meant to me, so although I yelled a lot, I didn't kill him. I picked up the one remaining fig stick, stuck it in a pot of soil and left it alone.
As I was cleaning the yard this year, preparing for a new season, I glanced at my stick in the mud from last year with sadness over that broken dream. Baxter had grown into a beautiful and even better behaved dog. Six weeks of Doggie Headstart had smoothed out his crisp puppie edges. My Mantra in life has become "Let it go", so I decided to pull the stick out and use the soil and pot for a new plant, one I would purchase from a nursery complete with a guarantee. To my surprise when I poured out the soil, dark and wet from an uncommonly wet Seattle winter, my stick had roots. I was shocked!! At the end of my stick was not only a ball of roots a large as my fist, but also a new branch was forming and preparing to break through the earth. A closer look showed tiny little green buds waving proudly on the branch above Baxter's teeth marks. Oh what joy! I gently replaced the soil, gave my fig tree a bit of fertilizer and placed the pot out of reach in case Baxter had a relapse. As Spring gradually struggles to become summer, my abused stick is now becoming a recognizable fig tree, albeit a very young fig tree. It has two branches and wonderful leaves. It is realizing its identity and moved beyond being a stick in the mud. It knows its purpose and has said "Yes"' to life in spite of a dog's mouth. It has become a FIG TREE!!
That's how God works in our lives. I often wonder why fig trees appear so frequently in the scriptures. They are hardy little troopers and well represent the possibilities for survival in spite of adverse conditions. We frequently think of ourselves as "sticks in the mud". People have defined us as such throughout many of our lives. Our teachers. Our friends. Our parents. Our spiritual leaders. Our lovers and partners. Our government, our employers, and the media. We have only to look at the world around us to find messages that something about us make us unworthy or unnatural or unattractive because of our race or our gender or our size or our age or our health or our whatever. Some times - most times - it's easier to believe a lie than to embrace the truth. So we settle down in the mud and stay there.
What's really going on is that even as we sit stuck in the mud, God is moving through our selves to prepare us for our ultimate purpose: abundant life, passion, and ecstasy - not just joy, but ecstasy Today, I am happy to say that God meet us in our muddy places, the places where we feel stuck and misdirected. God gets right down there with us, pulling nutrients from the soil and placing them at the core of our souls, sending moisture to refresh, softening the bark around our hearts to enable new life, new dreams, new possibilities to break through and send us soaring toward the sky. As the saying goes, "The best of my life is the rest of my life", even when I've been stuck in the mud!!
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