There was an apple tree next to the house I grew up in, and for a few weeks every season it gave up its fruit without asking anything of me. I was small. The lowest branches hung right where a kid could reach, and I ate well off the easy wood.

But the season didn’t stay easy. As it went on, the low fruit disappeared — picked, or gone soft, or just out of turn — and what was left hung higher, on branches that asked something of me I hadn’t needed before. I had two choices. I could decide the season was over because the easy part was over. Or I could climb.

I think about that tree more than I probably should, because it turns out life keeps handing you the same choice in different clothes. Early on, growth is almost accidental. You show up, you try a little, and the fruit falls into your hand. Then one day it doesn’t anymore. The systems that used to work start to gum up. The relationship that used to run on autopilot needs a hard conversation. The faith that used to coast on inheritance needs to become yours, actually yours, argued-with and chosen and not just handed down. That’s the climb. Nobody warns you it’s coming, and nobody can do it for you, though sometimes someone taller comes along to steady the ladder.

I’ve spent a lot of years now watching people reach the top of the low branches — in careers, in marriages, in their own walk with God — and stop there, calling it a full harvest. I understand the temptation. The climb is awkward and a little frightening and it exposes how much you don’t actually know. But the fruit that costs you something is usually the fruit that was worth having. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I think it’s closer to design.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe about finishing anything well, whether it’s a season of work, a hard year, or a life: the point was never the fruit in your hand. Don’t focus on the accomplishment. Focus on what the reaching taught you — because that’s the part that transfers. The apple gets eaten. What you learned about balance, about patience, about which branches will actually hold your weight, comes with you to the next tree. If you only chase the harvest, you’ll always be hungry again by winter. If you pay attention to what the climbing built in you, you’re carrying something that doesn’t spoil.

There’s a version of faith that works the same way. Religion you were simply handed, never climbed for yourself, tends to stay decorative — true in theory, absent under pressure. But when you’ve actually confronted the hard questions, wrestled with what you believe and why, and come out the other side owning it rather than just repeating it, something shifts. That’s not a comfortable process. It rarely is. But I’ve watched it turn borrowed belief into a foundation that holds weight, and I don’t know a shortcut around it.

So if you’re standing under a tree right now where the low branches have gone bare — in your work, your relationships, whatever season you’re in — I don’t think that’s a sign to walk away. I think it might be the exact moment the fruit starts being worth something. The climb is going to ask more of you than the easy part did. It’s supposed to.

What would it look like this week to reach for the branch instead of walking to a different tree? I’d rather you sit with that question than take my answer for it. Think it through for yourself — that’s where it actually becomes yours.

— Reggie