“No figs again?” Ephraim asked, his voice low, his callused hand brushing dust from the hem of his robe.
Ben turned from the tree, mouth set in a hard line. “Three years. Still nothing.”
The fig tree stood twisted and full of leaves—promising from a distance, empty up close. Beside it, the long vineyard rows ran clean and obedient, grapes hanging fat and full. Every season, everything yielded—except this.
Ben threw his spade to the ground. “It’s wasting soil.”
Ephraim said nothing. He watched the older man’s shoulders rise and fall with sharp breath. Daylight slanted low through the branches.
Ben bent, pressed a broad hand to the cracked earth. “It doesn’t care. Doesn’t even try.”
“I’ll dig ‘round it,” Ephraim said suddenly. “Loosen the roots.” His voice was careful, quiet. “I’ll put down dung. Give it one more season.”
Ben shook his head. “You’re wasting time.”
“And if it bears fruit next year?”
Ben didn’t answer. He wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve.
In the silence, Ephraim knelt and dug.
He worked as if roots could feel intention. His hands moved firm and slow, carving space the tree had never asked for. He carried dung; the smell clung to his skin and hair. His back ached. His knees bruised. But every evening he stood under the fig tree and whispered the same words: “One more season.”
The town passed rumors of a teacher—this Jesus of Nazareth—who healed the bent and broke the silence of demons. Some mocked. Some hoped. Ephraim barely listened. His hands were full of soil.
Spring came, and the tree only stretched its blank limbs toward the sky. No figs. No beginnings.
Ben didn’t speak of it again. He passed the row with weary indifference, always to check on vines that knew their place. Ephraim kept tending.
Then one morning, Ephraim saw movement—small and green, tucked in behind a cluster of thick leaves. He reached for it with shaking fingers.
A fig.
Not much bigger than a knuckle. But round. Strong. Real.
By mid-season, there were three. Then seven.
Ben came to see. He turned the fruit in his palm, eyes narrowed—not with pride, perhaps not yet with belief. Just something slower. Quieter.
Ephraim said nothing. He'd learned silence better than speech. The work had taught him that.
On a dusty afternoon weeks later, a man came through the vineyard. Quiet voice. Steady hands. Dust on his feet like the rest of them. Jesus.
He didn’t speak miracles. Just walked and listened, eyes resting where they weren’t expected to.
When He stopped at the fig tree, He plucked a fruit, held it gently.
“You waited,” He said to Ephraim.
“I didn’t know if it would work.”
Jesus smiled without showing his teeth. “Sometimes mercy looks like dung and quiet hands.”
Ben came forward, his mouth open, unsure.
Jesus handed him the fig.
Ben paused, then broke it open. The sweetness caught him off guard. Juice clung to his fingers as he leaned into the shade. He didn’t speak, not even to thank.
Jesus nodded once, then walked on, leaving the scent of everything blooming behind Him.
Ephraim knelt again at the tree, pressing his palm to the roots.
He closed his eyes.
“No figs again?” Ephraim asked, his voice low, his callused hand brushing dust from the hem of his robe.
Ben turned from the tree, mouth set in a hard line. “Three years. Still nothing.”
The fig tree stood twisted and full of leaves—promising from a distance, empty up close. Beside it, the long vineyard rows ran clean and obedient, grapes hanging fat and full. Every season, everything yielded—except this.
Ben threw his spade to the ground. “It’s wasting soil.”
Ephraim said nothing. He watched the older man’s shoulders rise and fall with sharp breath. Daylight slanted low through the branches.
Ben bent, pressed a broad hand to the cracked earth. “It doesn’t care. Doesn’t even try.”
“I’ll dig ‘round it,” Ephraim said suddenly. “Loosen the roots.” His voice was careful, quiet. “I’ll put down dung. Give it one more season.”
Ben shook his head. “You’re wasting time.”
“And if it bears fruit next year?”
Ben didn’t answer. He wiped sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve.
In the silence, Ephraim knelt and dug.
He worked as if roots could feel intention. His hands moved firm and slow, carving space the tree had never asked for. He carried dung; the smell clung to his skin and hair. His back ached. His knees bruised. But every evening he stood under the fig tree and whispered the same words: “One more season.”
The town passed rumors of a teacher—this Jesus of Nazareth—who healed the bent and broke the silence of demons. Some mocked. Some hoped. Ephraim barely listened. His hands were full of soil.
Spring came, and the tree only stretched its blank limbs toward the sky. No figs. No beginnings.
Ben didn’t speak of it again. He passed the row with weary indifference, always to check on vines that knew their place. Ephraim kept tending.
Then one morning, Ephraim saw movement—small and green, tucked in behind a cluster of thick leaves. He reached for it with shaking fingers.
A fig.
Not much bigger than a knuckle. But round. Strong. Real.
By mid-season, there were three. Then seven.
Ben came to see. He turned the fruit in his palm, eyes narrowed—not with pride, perhaps not yet with belief. Just something slower. Quieter.
Ephraim said nothing. He'd learned silence better than speech. The work had taught him that.
On a dusty afternoon weeks later, a man came through the vineyard. Quiet voice. Steady hands. Dust on his feet like the rest of them. Jesus.
He didn’t speak miracles. Just walked and listened, eyes resting where they weren’t expected to.
When He stopped at the fig tree, He plucked a fruit, held it gently.
“You waited,” He said to Ephraim.
“I didn’t know if it would work.”
Jesus smiled without showing his teeth. “Sometimes mercy looks like dung and quiet hands.”
Ben came forward, his mouth open, unsure.
Jesus handed him the fig.
Ben paused, then broke it open. The sweetness caught him off guard. Juice clung to his fingers as he leaned into the shade. He didn’t speak, not even to thank.
Jesus nodded once, then walked on, leaving the scent of everything blooming behind Him.
Ephraim knelt again at the tree, pressing his palm to the roots.
He closed his eyes.
