Growing up in the Prairies, I never saw a fig tree. I don’t think that was unusual. Not the right climate. I knew what a fig was, though. They came in a plastic tray with a plastic wrapper around it. They were flat. They were encased in a dense envelope of biscuit.
Okay, perhaps I didn’t really know what a fig was. But I associated figs (as I knew them) with the summer, too. These figs meant long days driving. They meant keeping food in a cooler, not a fridge. They meant putting the tent up each night. They meant taking the tent down each morning.
The figs didn’t matter. Neither does the tree. It is not what heralds, but what is heralded, that matters. And so, we keep watch. We observe closely. We listen. For the rustle of the leaf. For the telltale crinkle of the plastic. For the—was that the gate?
Long-expected One, bid us be vigilant for your arrival. Amen. —