Advent 1: The (Fig) Tree

Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near."    ~Luke 21:29-31

I did not grow up in a gardening household. Both of my parents were from Philadelphia-- city, not suburbs-- and my mom summarized her affinity to flora by saying, "Put be between two trees, turn me around, and I am lost." My dad planted petunias in the summer in patriotic colors (though, the striped ones were really white and purple), and also called me "Sweet Petunia." But I didn't grow up with a lawn or flower beds or rows of baby lettuce that needed looking after.

And I certainly didn't grow up with trees. There were some trees in my neighborhood, but you had to go inland from the beach to really see foliage. Going to college in New England gave me an experience of trees that felt new-born. In autumn especially-- of course--I marveled at their color, thrilled at the variety one found in leaf and bark, and went on about it all at such length that the women in my bible study gave one another worried looks, and wondered aloud whether I might go off the road, I was so enthralled with the landscape.


Several years ago a friend gave me a cutting from a bush I admired that was growing around her house. When I mentioned it, she had eagerly asked whether I wanted some, and I sensed that its growth was pretty fast and furious and she was glad to send some off to a good home. Its flowers looked so exotic to me, like blooms one might see in Hawaii or Fiji. When I put pictures of the flowers online the following summer, about a dozen folks told me what I had was Rose of Sharon.

I was intrigued. A plant with a biblical connection (whose botanical name, Hibiscus syriacus, misinforms: it is actually from farther east-- think, China, Tibet): score! And not only that, but the mention was from Song of Songs, which is definitely the sexiest book in the bible. The bride sings, "I am a rose of Sharon, and a lily of the valleys" (Cant. 2:1), but just a verse or two earlier, she is sighing that her lover is a bag of myrrh between her breasts. Pretty steamy stuff.

You know what's not steamy? Pruning. My Rose of Sharon went from 2-1/2 feet when I planted it to about ten feet this summer, just four years later. (I understand that's typical.) I have a great helper for gardening stuff, and when I asked anxiously about pruning, she looked up and said something like, "Yeah. It needs it," but didn't offer to do it. I Googled and was informed that late fall (after leaves drop) or early spring (before buds form) was best. But I had a day in early November when I was motivated, so that's when I got out my tree lopper and went to town on the long, curving branches.

I was nervous. I was afraid to cut too much, I was determined not to cut too little. I kept stepping back to see the shape of the thing, and deciding, "More." I cut two large garbage cans full of branches, and still, I wondered, "Enough?"

How do you know? As the fall progressed and the leaves actually fell off the bush (oops...), I looked hard at what was left, and wondered. Had I gone too far? Had I misread the signs the plant was giving me? Am I completely inept at reading those signs, to the point I have killed any likelihood of blooming?

"You can see for yourselves, and know..." Jesus tells his friends, and the matters they are hoping to be able to discern are far more weighty than the question of whether I'll once again have my lovely rose of Sharon blooms. I got out my loppers and went to town. I hope I got it right. 

I hope I get it right.