It was the dusty season in Judea, and the temple courtyards buzzed with travelers. I stayed close to the gates, where I sold sweet figs and fresh bread wrapped in cloth.
My name is Elior. I was twelve and the youngest helper at my grandfather's fruit stand. He always said figs were a gift from God—but that day, I learned something far deeper than farming.
We were near the end of market when Jesus and His followers stopped by. I knew His face—I’d seen Him heal a crippled girl the week before just outside the city. People whispered His name like a prayer: “Rabbi. Teacher. Messiah.”
Jesus paused beside our stall, and I stopped stacking baskets to listen.
“There once was a man who planted a fig tree,” Jesus began. His voice was gentle, but strong enough to quiet the crowd. “He came three years, hoping for fruit. But each season, the tree was bare.”
He looked right at me—not in anger, but like He knew every thought I’d ever had.
“The man said to the gardener, ‘Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’” Jesus paused, and part of me felt like He wasn’t just talking about trees.
“But the gardener replied, ‘Master, give it one more year. I’ll dig around it and add fertilizer. If it bears fruit next season, good. If not—then cut it down.’”
Some nearby Pharisees folded their arms in disapproval. But I felt something stir in my chest—like He was giving all of us one more chance.
I looked at the twisted potted tree behind our stall. It hadn't bloomed since last year. Grandfather kept trying anyway—watering, trimming, hoping it would turn around.
“Why tell that story?” I asked, louder than I meant to. People turned. My ears burned hot.
Jesus knelt a little, meeting me eye to eye. “Because God is patient. But He wants fruit from our lives—not just leaves.”
I swallowed, unsure what He meant. "What kind of fruit?"
He smiled gently. “Kindness. Mercy. Truth. Forgiveness. Those grow from a heart turned toward God.”
The wind whooshed across the courtyard, lifting dust and olive leaves.
That night, I sat beneath our old fig tree and thought about my own heart. I’d lied to Grandfather a few days earlier. I’d snapped at a girl with a limp who couldn’t afford bread. My tree had looked leafy on the outside—but inside, I wasn't growing the fruit Jesus talked about.
So I prayed. For the first time in a long while. “God… please don’t give up on me. Help me change. Give me one more year.”
The next morning, I brought the girl a piece of bread. No charge. Her smile felt better than silver coins.
And our fig tree? Grandfather found a tiny green bud two weeks later.
I never forgot what Jesus taught me that day: Our lives need to bear good fruit—not just pretend.
God never gives up on us. He waits, gently tending the soil, hoping we’ll bloom.
And when we do, it brings joy to heaven.
I still sell figs. But now I grow something better too—kindness, truth, and a heart turned toward God.
It was the dusty season in Judea, and the temple courtyards buzzed with travelers. I stayed close to the gates, where I sold sweet figs and fresh bread wrapped in cloth.
My name is Elior. I was twelve and the youngest helper at my grandfather's fruit stand. He always said figs were a gift from God—but that day, I learned something far deeper than farming.
We were near the end of market when Jesus and His followers stopped by. I knew His face—I’d seen Him heal a crippled girl the week before just outside the city. People whispered His name like a prayer: “Rabbi. Teacher. Messiah.”
Jesus paused beside our stall, and I stopped stacking baskets to listen.
“There once was a man who planted a fig tree,” Jesus began. His voice was gentle, but strong enough to quiet the crowd. “He came three years, hoping for fruit. But each season, the tree was bare.”
He looked right at me—not in anger, but like He knew every thought I’d ever had.
“The man said to the gardener, ‘Cut it down! Why should it use up the soil?’” Jesus paused, and part of me felt like He wasn’t just talking about trees.
“But the gardener replied, ‘Master, give it one more year. I’ll dig around it and add fertilizer. If it bears fruit next season, good. If not—then cut it down.’”
Some nearby Pharisees folded their arms in disapproval. But I felt something stir in my chest—like He was giving all of us one more chance.
I looked at the twisted potted tree behind our stall. It hadn't bloomed since last year. Grandfather kept trying anyway—watering, trimming, hoping it would turn around.
“Why tell that story?” I asked, louder than I meant to. People turned. My ears burned hot.
Jesus knelt a little, meeting me eye to eye. “Because God is patient. But He wants fruit from our lives—not just leaves.”
I swallowed, unsure what He meant. "What kind of fruit?"
He smiled gently. “Kindness. Mercy. Truth. Forgiveness. Those grow from a heart turned toward God.”
The wind whooshed across the courtyard, lifting dust and olive leaves.
That night, I sat beneath our old fig tree and thought about my own heart. I’d lied to Grandfather a few days earlier. I’d snapped at a girl with a limp who couldn’t afford bread. My tree had looked leafy on the outside—but inside, I wasn't growing the fruit Jesus talked about.
So I prayed. For the first time in a long while. “God… please don’t give up on me. Help me change. Give me one more year.”
The next morning, I brought the girl a piece of bread. No charge. Her smile felt better than silver coins.
And our fig tree? Grandfather found a tiny green bud two weeks later.
I never forgot what Jesus taught me that day: Our lives need to bear good fruit—not just pretend.
God never gives up on us. He waits, gently tending the soil, hoping we’ll bloom.
And when we do, it brings joy to heaven.
I still sell figs. But now I grow something better too—kindness, truth, and a heart turned toward God.
