It was a surprise when it grew to be such a commanding presence in my backyard. With generous leaf and broad shade, its potential had been previously pruned back—its identity unknown, planted in our absence by a gardener. But as life changed, so too did the tree, and I allowed it to grow into what it was meant to be.
As seasons passed, buds bloomed into spiky, green-white clusters that turned pink, then red, purple, and finally black. The tree had revealed itself: a mulberry. A Morus: wild, generous, and full of promise.
I loved that tree with all my heart. Each October and November, I prepared myself for hours of each weekend spent fruit picking in my beloved tree. I climbed the ladder, bucket slung on one arm, fingers stained purple, carefully harvesting the fruit from treetop to trellis. From that perch I looked out over the golden plains of Kingswood to Wallabadah, and beyond to the rocky outcrops of the Great Divide. I’d video call family and share that peaceful moment from amidst the branches.
With buckets full, I washed and set the fruit to dry, some readied for jam-making, others tenderly bagged to be shared with friends and family. These were blissful months for me as I awaited the ripening of the fruit and precious moments where time was set aside for fruit picking, time when I became lost in the task at hand.
My tree gave fruit for jam, bounty for friends, moments of mindfulness, joy in the harvest. It even stirred memories of childhood, silkworms in shoeboxes and mulberry leaves gathered in the Sydney suburb of Beecroft to feed our precious pets.
As my beloved tree grew, its branches heaved under the weight of leaf and fruit, some touching the ground, some too far to reach. But what I found to be a joy turned out to be quite the opposite for my neighbours. They saw not the gift, but the mess: overhanging branches, dropped fruit, inconvenience.
In November 2022, it had been just three months since my family was rocked by the devastation of my grandson’s diagnosis with leukaemia. I sought out my usual weekend solace in my garden, ready to spend time in my tree harvesting. But to my dismay, I found large branches brutally cut down and hoisted to my side of the fence, carelessly and thoughtlessly left for me to clean up and dispose of on my own.
My heart broke. Ugly tears followed as I marched myself to their front door, not for the cutting, but for the lack of kindness. I erupted as I have never publicly done with a neighbour before. “Why? Just why? If you had come to my door and asked, I would have helped you trim the tree. All you had to do was knock on my door and ask me. But you took it upon yourself to take the matter in hand, and you carelessly and selfishly left me, a small, single woman without huge physical strength to clean up the massacre that you created for me”.
More tears overflowed into embarrassment as I returned to my yard, and with tools in hand, started to cut those branches into smaller, manageable pieces. It wasn’t long before a voice called out to me from my side gate. It was the neighbours, chain saw in hand, silent and remorseful, ready to help clean the mess. In that moment of grief, even amid my tears, I shared with them the deeper pain of our family’s recent crisis, the diagnosis of my young grandson. “You just don’t know what a person is going through,” I told them. We worked together in the quiet cutting, loading, and clearing the remaining bits of the felled branches.
After they left, I harvested what fruit I could and readied it for preserving. With this came the realisation that the tree, this life-giving force once my sanctuary, would need to go. So with a pruning saw, my ladder, and strength summoned from deep within, I cut it down. All. By. Myself.
Like in The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, my tree gave everything. It gave joy, peace, purpose, and beauty. Even in its absence, it continued to provide. Recently, I found three kilograms of frozen mulberries from the final harvest. And so, for a couple of months last winter, my tree continued to give to me each morning as I enjoyed a small portion of berries with oats, yoghurt, and granola, every spoonful steeped in memory and gratitude.
In Galatians 5:22-23 we read “but the fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Against such things there is no law.” From that tree and its season of growth, I received more than fruit. I learned about the fruit of the Spirit:
Love – demonstrated in nature, the love of my garden, the things of God’s creation.
Joy – felt in the precious moments spent high in my tree, lost in the task, cares put aside.
Peace – gazing over the plains in quiet stillness, focusing on healing and inner peace.
Forbearance – having patience with the Lord during a season of suffering and silence.
Kindness – in giving of one-self to others, in sharing the harvest with others.
Goodness – in living with honesty and generosity.
Faithfulness – having faith in God, a creator bigger than ourselves, brings life-giving hope.
Gentleness – responding to life and others with gentleness is a true reflection of the nature of Jesus Christ and the Kingdom of God.
Self-control – containing negative impulses and extending grace with the power of the Holy Spirit.
My tree was a companion in joy and pain, a metaphor for life: rich with juxtaposition, sacred in its giving. Like The Giving Tree, it was a buoy to me at a time when, for almost a decade, the lives of me and my family had been fraught with trauma and change, sickness and difficulty. Still, amidst this there was joy and hope and an abundance of love. Will we choose to be a joy giver or a joy taker? I choose to be a giver, to extend joy and love and to live in hope.
“Lift up your eyes and fix them on the place beyond the horizon to which you are sent. Journey in trust, assured that the great and marvellous work is for this time and all time.” As I read these words of D&C Section 161, the memory of my mulberry tree of life continues to grant wisdom. What fruit will you bear and share, so that it becomes a gift that keeps on giving?
God, where will your Spirit lead today? Help me be fully awake and ready to respond. Grant me courage to risk something new and become a blessing of your love and peace. Amen.
Jeannine Lewis