“I’ll cut it down myself, if that’s what you want.”
The words tasted like dust in Ezra’s mouth. He gripped the spade, its wooden shaft worn smooth by years of labor, fingers aching from the cold.
The landowner said nothing at first. He stood by the barren fig tree, his arms folded across his chest. The early sun threw tall shadows over his feet, but his eyes stayed on the tree—branches tangled and stubborn, leaves limp, fruitless yet again.
“Three years,” the man said finally. “No figs. Not one.”
Ezra nodded. He had tended it from the start—bent the young trunk straight when storms bent it low, loosened the soil after every long rain, even wrapped its bark in cloth during the harshest month of winter. Still, nothing. No fruit.
“I thought it would bear this year,” Ezra said quietly.
The man didn’t answer. He turned. Ezra thought it meant the end—he had seen that look before. But then the man lifted his hand. A pause.
“Leave it alone one more year,” came a voice behind them.
Ezra startled. The teacher was standing near, close enough that Ezra hadn’t heard His steps. The man with Him—Jesus of Nazareth—spoke with no rush, eyes on the base of the tree. He laid his hand on the cracked bark.
“Let it be,” Jesus said. “Let it live. I will tend it. I will dig around it, spread dung at its roots. And next year... we’ll see.”
The landowner raised an eyebrow. “And if it bears nothing still?”
“Then you may cut it down,” Jesus said.
The silence that followed was not empty, but full—like a storm choosing whether or not to break.
The man nodded once, then walked away.
Ezra let the spade fall into the dirt with a dull thud. He looked at Jesus, unsure what to say. He had seen Him heal the dying and cast demons out, but this felt stranger somehow—this saving of a useless tree.
Jesus remained by the trunk, fingers brushing the soil.
“You’ve done what you could,” He said, not looking up. “Now let Me do what I will.”
Ezra hesitated. “You think it can still bear fruit?”
Jesus stood, His expression unreadable under the rising light. “It was made for fruit.”
He left Ezra with that.
Jesus wasn’t just talking about a tree. He was talking about people too.
Weeks passed. Ezra watched. Jesus came again, and again—never in spectacle, never with crowds. Quiet mornings. A basket of dung, some water, thick fingers pressing into the dirt. Once Ezra offered to help, but Jesus only shook His head.
“If it bears, you’ll know who made it so.”
Spring blurred into summer. Still no fruit. Ezra stopped getting his hopes up, but he couldn’t stop looking. Every day, he came to see.
And then—one morning, while checking the olive press—he saw it.
A single fig.
Small. Pale. But it clung to the branch like a promise.
Ezra did not reach for it. He only touched the leaf beside it, lightly.
His hands were dirty from work. He didn’t dare take what he had not brought forth.
Behind him, footsteps.
Jesus stood there. He said nothing. His eyes were on the fig.
Ezra raised his head, just enough to meet them.
Tears burned before he could stop them. He knelt, not out of shame, not as a servant—just because his legs gave way.
Jesus stepped forward. With care, He broke the fig from the branch.
And placed it in Ezra’s hands.
They stood there, wordless. Just a tree. Just a fig.
Just a reminder that with patience and mercy—people can change too.
“I’ll cut it down myself, if that’s what you want.”
The words tasted like dust in Ezra’s mouth. He gripped the spade, its wooden shaft worn smooth by years of labor, fingers aching from the cold.
The landowner said nothing at first. He stood by the barren fig tree, his arms folded across his chest. The early sun threw tall shadows over his feet, but his eyes stayed on the tree—branches tangled and stubborn, leaves limp, fruitless yet again.
“Three years,” the man said finally. “No figs. Not one.”
Ezra nodded. He had tended it from the start—bent the young trunk straight when storms bent it low, loosened the soil after every long rain, even wrapped its bark in cloth during the harshest month of winter. Still, nothing. No fruit.
“I thought it would bear this year,” Ezra said quietly.
The man didn’t answer. He turned. Ezra thought it meant the end—he had seen that look before. But then the man lifted his hand. A pause.
“Leave it alone one more year,” came a voice behind them.
Ezra startled. The teacher was standing near, close enough that Ezra hadn’t heard His steps. The man with Him—Jesus of Nazareth—spoke with no rush, eyes on the base of the tree. He laid his hand on the cracked bark.
“Let it be,” Jesus said. “Let it live. I will tend it. I will dig around it, spread dung at its roots. And next year... we’ll see.”
The landowner raised an eyebrow. “And if it bears nothing still?”
“Then you may cut it down,” Jesus said.
The silence that followed was not empty, but full—like a storm choosing whether or not to break.
The man nodded once, then walked away.
Ezra let the spade fall into the dirt with a dull thud. He looked at Jesus, unsure what to say. He had seen Him heal the dying and cast demons out, but this felt stranger somehow—this saving of a useless tree.
Jesus remained by the trunk, fingers brushing the soil.
“You’ve done what you could,” He said, not looking up. “Now let Me do what I will.”
Ezra hesitated. “You think it can still bear fruit?”
Jesus stood, His expression unreadable under the rising light. “It was made for fruit.”
He left Ezra with that.
Jesus wasn’t just talking about a tree. He was talking about people too.
Weeks passed. Ezra watched. Jesus came again, and again—never in spectacle, never with crowds. Quiet mornings. A basket of dung, some water, thick fingers pressing into the dirt. Once Ezra offered to help, but Jesus only shook His head.
“If it bears, you’ll know who made it so.”
Spring blurred into summer. Still no fruit. Ezra stopped getting his hopes up, but he couldn’t stop looking. Every day, he came to see.
And then—one morning, while checking the olive press—he saw it.
A single fig.
Small. Pale. But it clung to the branch like a promise.
Ezra did not reach for it. He only touched the leaf beside it, lightly.
His hands were dirty from work. He didn’t dare take what he had not brought forth.
Behind him, footsteps.
Jesus stood there. He said nothing. His eyes were on the fig.
Ezra raised his head, just enough to meet them.
Tears burned before he could stop them. He knelt, not out of shame, not as a servant—just because his legs gave way.
Jesus stepped forward. With care, He broke the fig from the branch.
And placed it in Ezra’s hands.
They stood there, wordless. Just a tree. Just a fig.
Just a reminder that with patience and mercy—people can change too.
