We were a little sneaky. Before we put our first house on the market, we dug up a Japanese maple that we had planted in the backyard. We had planted it around the time we got married; it was an offshoot from a beautiful maple that grew at John’s parents’ house—the only home he lived in during his childhood, which has since been sold. The tree had a double meaning for us: it was both our “wedding tree” and a living connection to John’s childhood home. Because of that, before selling the house we decided to carefully dig it up, place it in a bucket, and take that bucket along with us to our new place.
We moved in December, though, and that is not exactly the ideal time to transplant a tree. The timing made everything uncertain from the start. The ground was frozen and the weather was unpredictable, so the tree spent several weeks in that bucket before we could plant it. By the time we finally found a clear patch of ground and the right conditions to put it in the soil—about seven weeks after moving—there was a lot of worry that it might be dead.
Despite our concerns, we planted it anyway. We gave it some water, hoped for the best, and tried not to dwell on the worst. When spring finally arrived, another maple on our property burst into life and looked lush and healthy, while our transplanted tree still seemed lifeless. The contrast was alarming. The new maple was full of bright growth, leaves unfurling and adding instant life to the yard. Our little wedding maple, though, remained unchanged.
At first there were tiny buds on the tips of its branches—buds that had been present since we first dug it up in the winter—but they didn’t develop. They stayed the same, stubbornly unchanging. It didn’t look rotten or obviously dead, but it did look dormant in a way that could mean trouble. We feared the worst, but because it didn’t show signs of decay we decided to leave it alone and see whether it would respond in its own time. John even joked that maybe it would take an entire year to recover and then burst forth with growth the following spring after a long rest.
Then, one afternoon after mowing the lawn, John came inside with a look that immediately told me something was up. He stood there and said, “Guess what?” and then paused for dramatic effect long enough for me to imagine all sorts of silly scenarios—everything from a talking squirrel to buried treasure. Finally he blurted out, “The maple…” and I interrupted, shouting, “Is it getting leaves? Is it alive?!” He nodded, and I could hardly contain myself. Tiny, delicate red leaves had appeared along several branches. The sight of them felt miraculous after weeks of anxious waiting.
I ran outside, full of excitement, and started cheering the tree on—singing little encouragements and chanting things like “Go maple, it’s your birthday” before it evolved into a chorus of “Grow maple, grow maple, grow!” I’m sure the new neighbors heard me and may have wondered what was happening, but I couldn’t help it. Caring for a plant that carries so much sentimental weight makes every tiny sign of life feel thrilling, and my reaction was heartfelt even if a little over-the-top.
We know things could still go wrong—the reality is that leafy branches can sometimes die back unexpectedly, and a tree that looks good now might struggle later. Still, this new growth feels like a strong and encouraging sign. The idea that, one day, we’ll be able to glance out our window and see the small maple that connected our wedding day to John’s childhood home thriving in our backyard is comforting and joyful. For now, we’re celebrating the small victory and continuing to give it the care it needs. Go maple—grow strong and stay with us for years to come!