The Leaves of our Lives

 

Awoke to the patter of rain on the windows. No rising sun streaked the sky with its golden rays. Rather, a dark canopy was anchored to the horizons on all sides. A light wind tussled and prised dying leaves until they dropped, wet and heavy, from swaying branches.

Autumn is here.

With uncharacteristically-mild temperatures lingering still, though, it’s hard to know when to lift the dahlias, which are still flowering, and as a novice pumpkin-farmer, when do I harvest my three modest-sized pumpkins, which are still more green than orange?

Unbelievably, I’ve been looking at my Christmas cake recipe this morning. The passing seasons don’t just swirl round and round, like a screw with a broken thread. Each new season moves me closer to reunion with my mighty and loving maker. There is forward motion in the swirling seasons of the years.

The other day I swept leaves and bagged them; in a year or two they will provide rich mulch for the veggie patch. The events of my life – good and bad – develop, flourish, mature and drop like the leaves. Most are beautiful, vibrant memories I still cherish. Some are spotted and withered, painful memories I still have. They are bagged up in me, and if I allow God to have his way, together they rot down and develop into a rich mulch which informs my hope and my faith in the absolute faithfulness of our loving Lord.

May the leaves of our lives enrich the hours of our days. Today and always.