For many years, we had a Page orange tree in our backyard that produced some of the sweetest citrus I have ever tasted. It was such a dependable giver; every spring its shiny green leaves would explode with delicate white blossoms whose fragrance could stop you in your tracks. The blossoms gave way to delicious fruit that ripened just in time for Thanksgiving.

We loved that tree – and probably took it for granted, because it was so reliable and generous. But then one January, a polar vortex descended on Tallahassee and dropped temperatures into the teens and twenties for several days straight. Although we dutifully covered our fruit trees to protect them from the cold, when the weather finally thawed, the leaves on the Page tree started dropping to the ground until it became a gray skeleton of its former healthy self.

For over a year, I tried fertilizing, watering and mulching that tree back to life. But nothing seemed to help. Discouraged, but unwilling to surrender, I cut off the dead branches and dried out sections of the trunk, but left the stump and the roots in the ground. I kept hoping one day I would find a few determined green shoots pushing their way through the lifeless remainder of that tree.

We eventually bought another Page tree and planted it near the spot our OG Page had once flourished. The new tree has been slow-growing, and doesn’t produce much fruit, compared to its predecessor. I’m guessing the still-buried roots of the original Page are preventing the new tree from expanding its own root system. I probably should have dealt with the old tree roots more decisively.

It reminds me of the relationship I had with my late stepmother Joan.

I was 25 when my mother died of cancer at age 55. It was a devastating loss for my whole family and everyone who knew her. None of my seven siblings were prepared to lose her – my youngest brother was still in high school. My two daughters were still babies. The rest of us were new adults, trying to figure out who we were and who we wanted to become. My mother had been our guiding star and the beating heart of our family.

I could only grieve at her funeral – I wasn’t ready to think about celebrating her life. It was too soon and I was still too angry that she was gone.

So when my father married a long-time friend of the family less than a year later, I wasn’t sure how to respond. I understood that the loss of my mother had created a huge void in his life too – and I didn’t want him to be alone – so I pushed my grief down inside me and welcomed Joan into our family. But I was still numb.

I never grew close to Joan. We spent many holidays and family vacations together and were always cordial. Looking back, I am profoundly thankful for the love and companionship she provided my father as they aged into their 60’s, 70’s, 80’s and 90’s. But all that time, I withheld my unconditional affection from her, as if I had reserved that space in my heart for my mom and all I had left for Joan was a little piece on the side. I realize now that just was a lame excuse. The human capacity to love doesn’t have limits. I had imposed that limitation on myself, and it eventually became a comfortable default.

Our replacement Page tree would probably be healthier and more fruitful if I had made the effort to dig up the roots and stump from the original tree so it didn’t have to compete for the space it needed to thrive. And I could probably have been more loving and accepting of Joan if I had been able to graduate from the anger and sadness of losing my mother to a place of gratitude for the amazing life she lived while she was with us.

I can’t get a do-over with Joan – or my mom. But I can try to be better at letting go of things I can’t change and giving my full heart and soul to the people in my life now.

And the next time a tree dies in my backyard, I am going to put on my big girl panties and dig it up – roots and all – to create a clean and healthy space where something else can grow and thrive.

“Create in my a clean heart, O God,

and renew a right spirit within me.”

Psalm 51:10