The Fruitful Persimmon Tree

There is a persimmon tree on our property that has stood strong for at least fifty years. It was already tall when my parents bought the land, so it has surely witnessed many more seasons than I know. Standing alone—holding down the hillside—it marks the boundary between our property and the neighbors. It has silently watched my days as a child exploring the backyard, my many visits home over the years, and now, as my husband and I have moved into my childhood home, it greets me again on my daily morning walks.

Persimmons are not particularly large trees, but they have dense, strong wood. Our persimmon has mightily weathered countless storms. But one day, while stopping to admire it up close, I realized there was tremendous damage from a colony of wood ants. Half of the trunk—from the ground up about ten feet—was affected. I could see woodpecker holes, bark falling away, and other signs of deterioration as well. When I rapped my knuckles on the trunk, the hollow sound confirmed the damage.

I remember sadly thinking the tree was surely witnessing its final years, and that its fruit-bearing days were over. But to my surprise, that first fall it still produced fruit. I marveled, though I thought it would surely be the last.

Fast forward to this summer. I found a large chunk of the trunk pulled away—likely the work of a raccoon seeking tasty ant snacks. Surely now its days were numbered. Yet once again, as summer rolled on, not only was the tree still standing strong, but to my delight, it was producing fruit—abundantly. As the golden-orange persimmons ripened and began to fall, I gathered some to eat. How could I not enjoy them after witnessing the work of this resilient tree? And I have to say—they were delicious.

What rich wisdom do I hear God speaking through the life of this admirable tree? As long as there is life, there is opportunity to be fruitful—even abundantly so. Things are not always as they appear. My perception isn’t always the full picture of what’s really going on. Beneath the surface, hidden life is at work—quietly creating, growing, offering beauty. There is always room in this life for surprise and wonder, and for that I am grateful.