My neighbor and I stood in her driveway in the deep summer heat. She lives next door and has lived in the neighborhood longer than most. This was the first time she and I talked since my husband’s funeral a few months before. She kindly gave me her condolences and I accepted them. It was good to think of him again.

We both squinted from the glare as she turned her eyes to the back of my yard. My eyes followed hers as she said, “I was worried about my favorite tree. I love that holly tree. I was afraid we were going to lose it there for a while.” 

She grew up on a farm in the country and her authoritative voice resonated with my deepest fear. I think she was right. I think I came close. The thought of losing anything else was very sobering.

I almost killed the holly tree. That tree is in my yard, and it is my responsibility and I almost killed it.

She said she was afraid we were going to cut it down as part of our big renovation. Mother rented the house to two young men who did not treat the property kindly. This refuge required a major overhaul before we could move in. 

A lot changed but I could never harm that holly tree. It was too beautiful and besides, my mother loved it too. To lose the tree would be like losing her and my husband all over again. 

Since my mother died, I’ve been living in her old house. She bought it after my daddy died. The larger, grander house I grew up in, the one that seemed too small for two parents and four children, became too big for a solitary set of footprints. 

When she bought this little house, my sister lived around the corner. The location was a good fit for them both. Then, my sister moved away, and my mother moved closer to my nephew. She kept the house and rented it because nobody else really wanted it.

Mother dangled this house as an incentive for us to move home as James’ health declined. We needed help and home was the place to come. Our house in New Orleans had not yet sold. So, we at least had a place to stay while James walked his slow steps toward death. 

To me, it isn’t just a house. My mother lived here. My husband died here. My sons were school-aged children when they chased each other around that old holly tree. I have deep feelings about this house and its care is up to me.

And that includes the holly tree. 

It isn’t just some bush. The house was built in 1920 and the tree might have been proudly planted by those who built it. Holly trees grow slowly. So, it has been around awhile. It is now taller than my home. A tree like that deserves respect and care.

Like I said, the house needed work to be livable. An alley runs along the back and as part of our big renovation project we extended the little gravel patch my mother used for parking to a semi-circle that crossed the backyard. It wasn’t too close to the tree roots or at least that’s what I thought.

We clipped the bottom branches to provide space to park our cars and lined the edges of the driveway with timbers. It looked neat and clean until the yellow leaves dropped from the trees and blanketed the yard. 

About six months after the completed project, I stood at the backdoor sipping a mug of coffee. Suddenly it struck me that there were a lot of yellow leaves on that evergreen tree. As I looked closer, it appeared that yellow leaves blanketed the driveway too. I got a sinking feeling.

I killed the holly tree. 

That’s what sunk into the pit of my stomach as I glanced out the back door and noticed that the tree didn’t look very happy. It seemed like there were as many yellow leaves in the tree as there were on the ground. 

I felt scared and stupid and thoughtless. Grief and shame washed over me. What in the world was I thinking? No driveway was more important than that beautiful tree. It splashed green in the coldest, grayest of winter days and its red berries fed the birds.

My mind scrambled to make some sense of what I saw. All I wanted was to fix it. I sprang into action. Surely there was something I could do. Surely there was some action I could take to reverse the damage that was falling from its very branches.

I soon discovered that even though the holly is an evergreen tree, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t lose some leaves. To grow it needs to shed. Maybe the tree was in shock. Perhaps there was still hope.

I slowed myself down and thought about the history of the tree and its resiliency. Even if this loss was more than its usual amount of leaves, the tree has already survived a lot.

I thought about its strength and what all that tree has witnessed. Was it there for the 1937 flood that inundated this whole part of town? What about the big tornado of 1975? It certainly survived that along with an untold number of assaults from the elements: rain, wind, snow, ice. This tree has seen a lot.

Despite all of that, the tree is still here. 

I thought, I’m just going to give it some time.

I watered it and fed it and gave it an encouraging word every time I drove under it to park my car. The following year when the yellow leaves dropped again, it seemed there weren’t quite as many on the ground as the year before and those on the tree blended better into the remaining green leaves.

Then I realized that I needed to do the same for myself. The tree reminded me that to survive a shock, living things need a little time. They need water, food, rest, and a kind word now and then. With some support there’s a good chance they will survive the shock just as my tree has and as I have too.

My shock was the loss of my husband of 41 years. For others it might be the loss of a job or any number of things the pandemic threw their way. It’s been a tough stretch for most of us. 

Yet it’s important to not gloss over loss. The things of the past need to be grieved so that the hurt and memories don’t lock us into expectations for a life that isn’t ever going to be the same. 

Acknowledge the pain and release it. Otherwise, it will remain a heavy weight like an anchor dragging behind a speedboat. You can keep moving forward but it’s a lot easier without that extra load.

Like the tree, to grow we need to shed.

Would I want my husband here now? A part of me says “yes!” But the part of me that saw him struggle says, “no.’ Thank God he didn’t have to suffer not only physically but also in other ways as we have watched our world change. 

We can’t control the changes around us, but we can choose how we accept them. In that choice lies our ultimate freedom. 

My choice is to be as kind and accepting of myself as I was to the tree as it suffered. It has taken me a while to reach this point. I realized that to turn my eyes forward to the future and away from an inalterable past wasn’t being disloyal to him. My acceptance honors what we had and who we were together. It provides a strong foundation for whatever lies ahead.

It’s taken a while, but now I see this is a very good place to be. 

Like the tree, I’ll get past this rough spot. 

Like the tree I will survive. 

Like the tree I will thrive rooted in this space where I choose to be.

I have hope and that is good.