Phil Tate

There’s a swing in our back yard that hangs from a limb thick enough to hold a small car. My kids fly back and forth under that Sweet Gum canopy-laughing, twisting, asking for one more push.

It’s not tucked into a corner. It stands rear center, right in the heart of everything. At almost 3′ in diameter, the trunk has presence. It’s steady. The scaffolding of limbs stretches out like it’s been planning this layout longer than we’ve lived here.

I didn’t plant this tree. It came with the house. Early on, I didn’t think much about it-until winter rolled in and the gum balls started falling.

If you lived with a sweet gum, you know exactly what I mean. The gum balls drop like spiked marbles-hundreds of them. You rake them. Step on them. Curse them. And for a while, that’s all I noticed.

But that changed.

This tree holds the whole backyard together. It shades our cookouts. It’s a landing spot for birds, squirrels and a swing that’s already outgrown one child. It’s where we pitch the tent in the summer. It’s where I place a spot light aiming up into its canopy on fire pit Saturday nights to see its amazing form. It’s where we gather to play corn hole and keep cool under its branches in the hot summer. The more I paid attention, the more I saw its generosity.

Sweet gums aren’t quiet. They are not tidy. But they show up year after year and do their work. In a time when so much is designed to be convenient, a tree like this reminds me that not everything valuable should be low-maintenance. This tree has taught me how to make peace with mess. How to see structure in chaos. How to let something be big, and imperfect, and rooted.

It’s not a perfect tree. But it’s honest. And it is ours.