2005 and 2019 were years when Medina Lake had water. I swam in its clear blue-green and jumped from its cliffs. That rope swing gave us hours of fun, and my Momo sat watching, protected by her brimmed hat. Its water gave life and life abundant. But I'm haunted by the speed at which it receded, the haste with which it left. It left us, and like us, the madrona trees of its bordering woods drooped in sadness. They gave their berries their signature tart.

The tart of Madrona berries is unmistakable. It's flavor I've known as long as I can remember. These berries are much like figs, hydrating and satiating under the hot sun, but they have a powerful bitterness that makes you spit them out. I've always heard that the drought has made them like this. "They only became bitter once the water left."

I've never known a non-bitter madrona berry. Perhaps I never will. Maybe they're meant to be like this, to warn off the predators that seek their fruit. But, unless the water comes back for longer, you or I shall never know. We'll only know this bitter tart that grows on beautiful leaves.

Would Christ have cursed this tree too? Are his curses reserved for fig-less fig trees, or would he angrily curse this bitter madrona too? If Adam named this tree "Madrona," if the cosmic God placed it in Eden, if these berry-mothers grew to produce bitter fruits by either condition or design, would Christ curse at them in anger?

In my mind, I see Christ walking by a madrona. I see him pick a berry and take a bite. He spits it on the ground. He curses it. But it lives, and he walks away.

In my future, I will walk by a madrona. I will pick a berry and take a bite. I will spit it on the ground, but I will not curse it. I will admire it. I will thank it and pray for it. I will rebuke this action of Christ, this replayed curse from Matthew's Gospel.

Unlike Christ, I will thank the madrona and bless it. Though I taste the same tart as he, I will not curse the descendants of Eden's trees. And though I rebuke Christ's action here, I believe that he pains at remembering this. I believe that Christ now hurts at the pain he brought this tree and the rash anger with which he screamed.

I can't imagine an Eden, before or soon-to-come, without madrona trees lining the Hill Country hills. I can't imagine a paradise without creeks and rivers flowing or Medina Lake full again. I'll be in the hills. I'll explore throughout the woods that border my home. As water flows and birds sing, I'll know there's no more drought. And yet, as I reach up to taste the madrona's berry, I hope to find a tart so bitter I spit it out. For then, I'll be at home, forever to dwell with these perfect trees.