I once danced underneath a peach tree that was struck by lightning.

The peach tree had not borne fruit since, and I was told it would most likely not bear fruit again. I understood how this tree felt. There were so many things in my life that felt dead, unattended to, left dormant. But hope and faithfulness led me to paint another picture.  

In the depths of childhood one Appalachian summer, I sat under my Grandpa’s favorite peach tree. “Come with me,” he said. My grandfather was a land-rich man who knew the hills of West Virginia like the back of his hand. Seven generations deep, he had a way of helping things grow, a magic touch. (I later learned through observation that this “magic touch” was his diligence and consistency.) I turned to see him cutting one of the fruits fresh from a branch. “This didn’t happen overnight,” he explained gently. “It takes time.”

The nectar dripped over his weathered hand with the sweet victory of his diligence and faithful work. “Do you see this?” He gently lowered the only bare branch of the peach tree so it was at my eye level. “This isn’t dead, it can bear fruit again. Here, come and see.” He reached into his pocket for a knife, cutting sharply a branch from the core of the tree. It was still green. I was shocked and wondered why he would cut off something that was alive. It was then and there he taught me to cut back things that were alive (as well as things that were dead) often more than I felt comfortable with.  

Decades later, a restored farmhouse, nearly a century old, became a community home for artists that I would steward for over six years. Downtown Charlottesville was just a stone’s throw away from our neighborhood. To my surprise, a peach tree crowned our backyard. It had been struck by lightning years before, lush with leaves but void of fruit. It reminded me of those summers back home with my Grandpa. What would he do? I wondered.

Charred black from its scar, I knew how this peach tree felt. Unexpected devastation. How do you prepare to be struck bare? I observed and attended to its wounds like I did the wounds of my heart. Like the things I had been hoping for and dancing over for decades, though they had not yet come to pass. Of the things in my life that lie dormant, naked, bare . . . I wondered: Will they ever bear fruit again?   

Every season, I attended to the scarred tree, hoping it would bear fruit. Each summer, I was disappointed but remained hopeful. Approaching our final summer, my hope had waned thin. Had all those years counted for nothing? One morning, to my tearful surprise, the tree was covered in fruit. I cried and danced under the tree. The deep joy that accompanied struck me like lightning, itself.

When we are at our darkest and all hope seems lost, there is hope in the seeds we have faithfully sown. Is this not the hope of resurrection? It stood as a testament to me — that no matter what seeds you plant or how you tend to the garden of the soul or of a neighborhood, the toiling is not for nothing. You may not know if the fruit will come back after the pruning, but it matters to keep hoping. Even so, the fruit you do leave behind is the greatest gift you could ever give.

Seeing fruit on the peach tree reminded me to keep showing up, no matter the loss, the shift, or the pain. I learned to figuratively — and literally — keep dancing underneath the peach tree in gratitude because you never know what healing is happening underneath the surface. Turns out, the fruit of my labor was not for me, as we were moving out of the community home for artists that summer. It would be left for whoever was to come.

I did harvest one bushel of peaches, taking them with me to make my favorite pie. You may or may not experience the fruit of your labor, but know this: Generations beyond will see the fruit of your faithfulness. They will, in gratitude, dance under the tree that was once scarred, strengthened by your faithfulness to endure.

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