3 Lessons From the Jabong Tree

One of the joys of our family living in Hawaiʻi has been discovering foods we never would have tried otherwise. I've been especially amazed by the incredible variety of tropical fruits, many of which I didn't even know existed before moving here.

One of those is a citrus fruit known locally in Hawaiʻi as jabong. Native to Southeast Asia, jabong was introduced to the Hawaiian Islands more than a century ago and has thrived in the islands' tropical climate.

The first time I saw a jabong tree, I was fascinated. At first, I honestly thought someone had hung giant yellow ornaments from the branches! The fruit is enormous, measuring about 6 to 12 inches across and weighing anywhere from 1 to 4 pounds. Seeing a tree laden down with these massive citrus fruits was both surprising and a little comical. ​

Several months ago, a family friend gave us a jabong from a tree in his yard. I set it on the kitchen counter, fully intending to slice it open and enjoy its bright, mild citrus flavor. But life got busy. One day turned into another, and before I knew it, the jabong had gone from perfectly ripe to well past its prime.

Rather than throw it away, I decided to turn it into a little science experiment with my daughter.

We dug a small hole in the yard and buried it. For the first few days, we checked on our little experiment, eagerly looking for some sign of life. Of course, nothing happened — at least that we could see. Eventually, we stopped checking as often, and life moved on.

Then one afternoon, while I was working in the yard, something caught my eye. There, poking up through the soil, was a tiny green sprout. 

As the weeks turned into months, we watched that sprout slowly become a plant with a few green leaves. It will be a long time before it grows into a mature tree that bears fruit, but I already find myself smiling every time I see it.

Somehow, this little plant has become a quiet reminder to my heart that God is always at work. And just like this jabong plant is slowly becoming something beautiful, God is doing the same in me.

As I watch this tiny jabong grow, the Lord continues to impress these three simple truths about growth on my heart.

1. Growth takes time.
   ​I want to grow as a woman of God —as a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, and a friend. But if I'm honest, I often wish there were a shortcut to that kind of growth. I'd love for God to simply transform me overnight into someone more loving, more gracious, more patient, and more like Christ.
   
   But God, in His wisdom, knows that true, lasting transformation doesn’t happen in an instant. Instead, He patiently shapes me day by day, using both ordinary moments and difficult seasons to change me. The transformation is usually so gradual that we hardly notice it. Then one day, we look back and realize something has changed.
   
   My twenties were a difficult decade for me. On the outside, I was stepping into adulthood, but on the inside, I often felt completely out of my depth. I was reckoning with making my faith my own, rather than simply believing it because it was what I'd always been taught. I wrestled with questions, doubts, fears, and the natural growing pains that come with becoming an adult. I wanted quick answers and neat resolutions so I could finally feel settled.
   
   Now, on the other side, I can see how God was producing slow but steady growth in me over those difficult days, months, and years. I very vividly remember waking up one day into my early 30s and having the thought, “Wow! God has really changed me! I’m not the same person. I’m still not perfect, but I am growing!” 
   
   This experience has cemented two verses in my heart and mind:
   “[God] has made everything beautiful in its time" (Ecclesiastes 3:11).
   "He is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season" (Psalm 1:3).
   
   Both verses remind me that God's work unfolds according to His perfect timing, not mine. Growth isn't rushed, and neither is the fruit it produces. From the surface, I cannot see what God is doing, but I can trust that He is faithfully at work—strengthening roots, refining my heart, and sanctifying me day by day.
   
   Fruit only comes in its due season. Not when I think it should, but exactly when He knows it is ready. There are no shortcuts to spiritual maturity, only the faithful work of a gracious Gardener who knows exactly what He's doing.
   
   
2. Growth requires death.
   The more I learn about gardening, the more I'm struck by how much of plant life depends on death. Organic matter—fallen leaves, dead plants, insects, and animals—breaks down, nourishing the soil and making way for new life to grow. 
   
   Perennials die back above the ground during the cold winter months, while beneath the surface their roots remain alive, waiting for spring and new growth. Even a seed must undergo a kind of death as its hard outer shell must crack open and give way before the tiny seedling inside can emerge and push its way through the soil toward the light.
   
   Again and again, creation reminds us that God often brings life through what first appears to be loss.
   
   Jesus confirms this in John 12 as He nears the end of His life and ministry. Knowing that His earthly ministry is drawing to a close, He uses the image of a seed to explain what is about to happen: “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John 12:24).
   
   Jesus is speaking first about Himself. His death was not a tragic interruption of God's plan—it was the plan. Like a seed buried in the ground, He gave His life so that abundant life could come to countless others. Through His death, the world would receive life.
   
   But Jesus doesn't stop there. He continues by addressing His followers: “Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. If anyone serves me, he must follow me” (v. 25-26).
   
   In other words, the pattern of Jesus' life is meant to become the pattern of ours. The Christian life is one of continual surrender. We are called to die to ourselves—our pride, our selfish ambition, our desire for control, our insistence on having our own way—so that Christ's life can be increasingly evident in us. The old must die so that there can be new life. 
   
   This may sound dramatic, but this kind of dying rarely happens in one defining moment. Dying to ourselves happens through small, daily acts of obedience to Christ. It happens when — 
   We choose to forgive rather than harbor bitterness 
   We trust God instead of giving our hearts over to fear and worry
   We humbly surrender our dreams and plans for His far better ones
   
   Each of these daily deaths of ours is used by God to change us and produce lasting fruit. The beautiful paradox of the gospel is that we don't experience growth or find life by holding tightly to our own. We find it through surrender. 
   
   
3. Growth is a process, not a destination.
   No matter how much I would love for my spiritual growth to be a once-and-done transformation, that’s not how it works. Sanctification is the lifelong process of being conformed to the image of Christ. Day by day, the Holy Spirit patiently refines us, shaping our hearts, renewing our minds, and teaching us to love and obey Jesus more fully. That work will not be complete until the day we see Him face to face. 
   
   This is a beautiful but hard truth to accept. It is beautiful because it gives us hope for the future, but it is also hard because we are still living in the day-to-day. It is what many Bible teachers refer to as the tension of “already, but not yet.”
   
   We are fully forgiven and justified, but we still live in a sinful, broken world awaiting its final redemption. The Christian life is lived in this tension—resting in what Christ has already accomplished while eagerly anticipating the day when His work in us will be complete. 
   
   As I've mentioned more than once, I'm a great admirer of C.S. Lewis. Of all his books, The Chronicles of Narnia remain some of my favorites. Although Lewis never intended the series to function as a strict allegory, he masterfully wove theological truths throughout the stories. One of my favorite examples comes from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, where Lewis paints a beautiful picture of justification. 
   
   In this book, the reader is introduced to the character of Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and spoiler alert, he is not a nice guy. Eustace is arrogant, selfish, and thoroughly unpleasant. During the voyage, his greed gets the better of him after he discovers a dragon's treasure. He slips a golden bracelet onto his arm, falls asleep on the hoard, and awakens to discover that he has become the very thing his heart resembled—a dragon. 
   
   Once he realizes where his selfish heart has led him, he experiences true remorse and brokenness. 
   
   It is then Eustace meets Aslan —the great Lion and Lewis's unmistakable picture of Christ. He takes Eustace to a living spring and tells him to remove his scales so he can bathe in the healing waters. Eustace painfully tries to remove his dragon scales, but under every layer is a new one, and he soon realizes his efforts are futile. It is then that Aslan tells him, “You will have to let me undress you.” 
   
   Aslan uses his claws to remove the scales, and although it is a painful process, Aslan successfully frees Eustace from his dragon skin and plunges him into the healing water, where he transforms back to a boy again. 
   
   This is a beautiful picture of justification — the “already.” But what about his sanctification? What about the “not yet?” Well, C.S. Lewis addresses that rather succinctly when he writes this: “It would be nice and fairly nearly true, to say that 'from that time forth, Eustace was a different boy.' To be strictly accurate, he began to be a different boy. He had relapses. There were still many days when he could be very tiresome. But most of those I shall not notice. The cure had begun.”
   
   ​Isn't that the Christian life? The moment we place our faith in Christ, we are truly forgiven, fully accepted, and completely His. Yet His work in us is not finished. As we journey on this side of eternity, God is still growing us. We still stumble. We still struggle. We still have days when the old self seems far too familiar. But that doesn't mean God has abandoned His work to grow and change us. It means the cure has begun.

Our tiny jabong seedling still has many years of growing ahead of it before it finally bears fruit. But even without fruit, it is nourishing me. Every time I see it, it quietly preaches to my heart. 
​
It reminds me that growth takes time. God's greatest work is often slow, unfolding in ordinary days through countless small acts of faithfulness. It reminds me that before there can be new life, there must be a death of my pride, my plans, my fears, and my desire to control the outcome. And it reminds me that my sanctification is a divine process, not something to achieve this side of glory. Until the day I see Christ face to face, He will continue His gracious work of pruning, refining, and growing me into His likeness.

So when I become impatient with myself, I pray that God will help me remember the little jabong tree. My Gardener is never in a hurry, but He is never idle either. Every season has a purpose. Every act of surrender bears fruit in its time. Every trial is accomplishing something eternal. And because He is faithful, I can rest knowing that one day His work in me will be complete.

What areas of your life might God be asking you to patiently nurture—or even surrender—so that true, lasting spiritual growth can take root and eventually bear fruit?