Nothing is Wasted

 

Sitting in my prayer window, I watch, increasingly mesmerised by the sporadic rhythm of the falling leaves. Some, brown and crinkled, release their hold on the twig and sink to the ground in one motion. Others, still retaining some colour perhaps, float aimlessly downwards, perhaps resting in a cradle of branches briefly before once again drifting down, down, down.

Branches are increasingly exposed as this annual operation continues.

A leaf could be a dream I had, something I nurtured and anticipated a result. I may have worked at it for years until now, brown and shrivelled, it finally dies. It could be a hope, briefly held, disappointed.

It could be a life, aged and fully-spent, released into the arms of God. It could be a life, in middle age, which we expect to continue but which, instead, lets go and falls.

This is the season of sadness, but also the season of creating rich composts from which new life can emerge.

Whatever falls to the earth remains useful in the hands of our Almighty God. The richness of each of our hopes and dreams, each human life: nothing is wasted.

Underneath are the everlasting arms.