The Leaves Are Not the Fruit

“We are not the children anymore. We are the ones meant to tend the tree now.”

There’s a fig tree in the Bible that looks alive—lush with leaves, standing tall in the heat of the day. But when Jesus comes close, searching for fruit, he finds nothing. No figs. No sweetness. Just a tree performing life without actually living it. So he curses it. And by the next morning, it’s withered from the roots up.

It’s a harsh parable. And yet, it’s hard to ignore.

Because many of us are standing beneath trees just like that.

We ache for the warmth of family we once knew. The kitchens full of laughter, the summer reunions, the phone calls just to check in. We speak of it often, almost as if remembering it hard enough might bring it back. But the truth—quiet and cruel—is that the people who made that warmth are no longer here. Or they’re tired. Or they’ve done their part. And now, whether we realize it or not, it is our turn.

We have mistaken leaves for fruit.

We talk about how “family just isn’t what it used to be.” But we forget—family was never some magical thing that just was. It was built. Every phone call made. Every extra plate fixed. Every disagreement worked through. Every child listened to. That was the tending. That was the watering. That was the work.

And now it’s ours to do.

There are places—like a small town called Ypsilanti, Michigan—that once held one of the highest Black populations in the state. Long before the factories hummed, before Detroit rose, Black folks came there—fleeing from the South, from Canada, from systems that tried to erase them. And they did something incredible. They built. Churches, schools, families. They planted fig trees, so to speak. And for a time, those trees bore fruit that nourished generations.

But even in a place like Ypsilanti, the fruit doesn’t pick itself. The soil doesn’t stay soft on its own. Without labor, even the best-planted tree will wither.

The same is true for our families.

We are not owed the warmth we remember. We must recreate it. Rebuild it. Become it. Not because we feel like it, but because someone once did it for us—and now it is our season.

Somewhere, someone in your family is waiting for an invitation. Waiting for someone to say, “Come by.” Waiting for a holiday meal to feel like more than just food. Waiting for the fig tree to bear fruit again. They may not say it, but they feel the emptiness, too.

So I ask: will we be the ones who water the roots, or will we stand in the shade of dead branches and mourn what we did not maintain?

We don’t need to wait for someone else to be the glue. We are the glue.

We are not the children anymore.

The leaves are not the fruit.