Hoping for the Best

Lessons from a Tree

I called them to come.

Twenty years ago, it was a beautiful Maple planted next to the house, right outside my floor-to-ceiling kitchen windows. Hubby and the kiddos would bundle up on March days with a hammer, hollow shell casings from deer hunting, and empty gallon milk jugs with a single drilled hole near the top. Tapping the tree when the days were warm and the nights below freezing, we would gather enough sap to boil down for a tiny bit of syrup and enough sap to use in place of water while brewing a fresh pot of coffee.

That tiny Maple grew, and it grew. Without competitors for sunlight and nutrients, it soon was as tall as the house. The branches right outside my kitchen window allowed me to make friends with the squirrels and birds. The fall colors were not seen at a distance. Instead, I had a front-row seat viewing the daily changing striations of color woven through the leaves.

And that Maple grew, and it grew. Last summer, it towered over the house by at least twenty feet. Domineering, I often took comfort in the protection the tree offered. That comfort turned to fear when a storm turned the branches into ominous whips, lashing out against the windows and the house.

That’s when I called them to come.

They looked at the tree, its proximity to the house, and the estimated 60 feet of backyard they would need when crying, “Timber!”

Cost? An arm and a leg.

Ouch.

We said goodbye to the tree doctors and hoped for the best. Maybe the tree would continue to thrive. After all, who would spend an arm and a leg to have a tree removed? Ridiculous!

Yet other issues are also ominously hovering over my life; changes I need to make before disaster strikes, before the bottom falls out, before everything comes crashing down. To tackle the looming catastrophes means intentional effort. Costly effort. Uncomfortable effort. Reaching out to heal the friendship with tension. Confronting Hubby on the harsh words used last week. Starting a conversation with an adult child that I know will be tense.

As I sat at the kitchen table Monday night, an instant storm appeared out of nowhere. Torrential rains began pounding on my windows. The branches of my Maple began violently beating the house. I looked up from my bookkeeping and heard the earthshattering crack.

And then a crash.

And then a boom.

When my Maple came down, it decided to take part of the roof, plus the fascia and soffits from two sides of the house with it. My beautiful tree now lies dead, waiting for the tree mortician to come and remove its body. My roof will probably not be repaired for at least a month, as the storm wreaked havoc in several counties, and the roofing companies and tree doctors are booked. And there is now a vacant spot where my tree used to stand.

But it was all preventable.

I saw the problem, and I chose to do nothing about it. I wasn’t willing to pay the price. I wasn’t willing to take the appropriate steps to prevent the catastrophe. Now, I’m paying the price, which is now two arms and two legs. Double the ouch.

What if I call my friend before it’s too late and attempt to mend the relationship?

What if I find the time to talk with Hubby about the damage done to my heart when he spoke harshly to me, and it preserves our 32-year-long marriage?

What if I confront my adult child in love, gentleness, and grace, and it brings them back to Jesus?

Looking out my window, I see a vacant spot where my Maple used to stand.

I think I’ll talk to Hubby when he gets home from work.

I don’t want to find another vacant spot.

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Photo by Masaaki Komori on Unsplash