seasoned crosses
I found it curiously fascinating yesterday while I was running that the world celebrates fall with such zeal and energy. We herald the hardening leaves and delve ourselves into the colors spilling off the branches onto the trees and ground. We are giddy that the color green is harder and harder to find. The world is indeed splattered with golden, royal hues and it is unarguably breathtaking, yet we seem to forget what fall really is.
As much as I hate to address this autumnal elephant in the room, those crunchy leaves we so love to step on are...dead. The deep reds and oranges that turn our world into a grand sepia Instagram picture are actually the effects of a dying, rotting world that is fading away into a blistery season that most of the world despises. Why do we love this death so much? Why do we gladly throw on scarves and sweaters, but when coats become more of a necessity than a fashion statement do we huff and puff and schedule trips to the Bahamas? And, even more curiously, why is this death so beautiful? The word in itself is cold and bleak, while fall is warm and glorious and adds a noticeable glow to our streets, trees, skies, and even our hearts. I find myself more hopeful in the fall than any other season. More hopeful in the midst of death? Why is there something paradoxical about fall, something about death, that causes the world to carve pumpkins and have bonfires and jump into a pile of crunchy, dying, rotting leaves?
As much as I love to celebrate life's joyous moments with the friends that have so much to be excited about (and I really mean that), there is something about being with the people who aren't quite there yet. Those still struggling. The ones that are going through periods of death. The ones who have been broken by the power that is self-death and no longer carry pretty, silver crosses upon their necks but rather appalling, rotting, burdening ones upon their backs. The ones that daily face death of a part of themselves, disappointment in their closest friends, depression for their future, and disillusionment from everything stripped from them as the Spirit is painfully reminds us we cannot rely on our fickle selves. Those that are broken and aren't even going to pretend they have it all together anymore. Those who would honestly say they aren't excited about much. There is something about meeting up with those that bear heavy crosses and thinking, If they can keep going, I can too. It is seeing their faith grow even as their cross does; seeing them take one more step with bloodied, weary feet that makes me think that He is really doing something bigger than the seasons that envelop us. There is something bigger that is happening, something else that is worth each excruciating step. That this death, as slow and painful and breaking and embarrassing and shameful and lonely and pride-killling and self-ignoring as it is, is not as much about how He will come through circumstantially with spring and its budding flowers of hope. Those who have been let down by too many things in life know better than to hope for things to get better, that is much too trivial for those with heavy crosses. They have found something satisfying despite their tired feet and sore backs. They have a reason and do not envy those with pretty, silver crosses. And though they don't always feel brave or faithful or excited, they somehow pick up their crosses every morning. Because there is something worth it.
Someone worth it.
I love those people.
I find it even more maddeningly curious that the beautiful death of fall is finalized with cold and wind and darkness. It is if the majestic, golden bridge of fall leads us straight onto the barren ground of death and obsoleteness that is winter. We have lost our hope and the glows of fall have dimmed to nothing as the lasts of the leaves wither away. We stop looking up because the wind is blowing harshly. We burrow in our coats and apathetically, hopelessly wait for flowers to bloom.
But those who bear the cold, stand in the death that is winter, with all its storms and ruthlessness, and keep their eyes up, they are the ones to understand the miracle and mystery of winter, the subtle, hopeful hint that our Creator gives us in reference to our Crosses: that the most celestial, dazzling, truly stunningly beautiful byproduct to ever come from the sky happens in the season of utter demise. Heavenly, sparkling snow does not happen as the earth finally wakes up in its first buds of spring, nor in its warm lazy afternoons in summer, and not even in its imperial glorious landscape of fall. Rather, once everything is dead, that is when heaven sends its reminder of the spotless state of our souls through its majestic, almost other-worldly substance we call snow. And those who keep their eyes up and stand amidst the barren branches and brown grass, looking expectantly at a bleak sky, they are the firsts to see and understand that heaven does not happen amidst flourishing trees or green grass. Rather, heaven falls slowly and softly and beautifully upon those who stand bravely in the lifeless envelopment of winter.
That's what I love about those with heavy Crosses. Because they understand that heaven does not happen once life goes great. They realize that true beauty and fulfillment is other-worldly and not mere good circumstances. They have disciplined their eyes to be sensitive enough to see that it falls amidst the death and despair of our own spiritual winters, our heavy, death-stained crosses.
And that it is in that burden of death that we bear that life and glory and beauty fall down on us, simply comes from knowing the One that carried a much heavier cross than we ever could; the beauty and majesty of knowing and seeing more of Him and simultaneously letting Him kill and wash our sinful selves to be dead and somehow much more alive.
To be covered in His blood with the deepest reds of fall, and yet gloriously white as the first snow.
As much as I hate to address this autumnal elephant in the room, those crunchy leaves we so love to step on are...dead. The deep reds and oranges that turn our world into a grand sepia Instagram picture are actually the effects of a dying, rotting world that is fading away into a blistery season that most of the world despises. Why do we love this death so much? Why do we gladly throw on scarves and sweaters, but when coats become more of a necessity than a fashion statement do we huff and puff and schedule trips to the Bahamas? And, even more curiously, why is this death so beautiful? The word in itself is cold and bleak, while fall is warm and glorious and adds a noticeable glow to our streets, trees, skies, and even our hearts. I find myself more hopeful in the fall than any other season. More hopeful in the midst of death? Why is there something paradoxical about fall, something about death, that causes the world to carve pumpkins and have bonfires and jump into a pile of crunchy, dying, rotting leaves?
As much as I love to celebrate life's joyous moments with the friends that have so much to be excited about (and I really mean that), there is something about being with the people who aren't quite there yet. Those still struggling. The ones that are going through periods of death. The ones who have been broken by the power that is self-death and no longer carry pretty, silver crosses upon their necks but rather appalling, rotting, burdening ones upon their backs. The ones that daily face death of a part of themselves, disappointment in their closest friends, depression for their future, and disillusionment from everything stripped from them as the Spirit is painfully reminds us we cannot rely on our fickle selves. Those that are broken and aren't even going to pretend they have it all together anymore. Those who would honestly say they aren't excited about much. There is something about meeting up with those that bear heavy crosses and thinking, If they can keep going, I can too. It is seeing their faith grow even as their cross does; seeing them take one more step with bloodied, weary feet that makes me think that He is really doing something bigger than the seasons that envelop us. There is something bigger that is happening, something else that is worth each excruciating step. That this death, as slow and painful and breaking and embarrassing and shameful and lonely and pride-killling and self-ignoring as it is, is not as much about how He will come through circumstantially with spring and its budding flowers of hope. Those who have been let down by too many things in life know better than to hope for things to get better, that is much too trivial for those with heavy crosses. They have found something satisfying despite their tired feet and sore backs. They have a reason and do not envy those with pretty, silver crosses. And though they don't always feel brave or faithful or excited, they somehow pick up their crosses every morning. Because there is something worth it.
Someone worth it.
I love those people.
I find it even more maddeningly curious that the beautiful death of fall is finalized with cold and wind and darkness. It is if the majestic, golden bridge of fall leads us straight onto the barren ground of death and obsoleteness that is winter. We have lost our hope and the glows of fall have dimmed to nothing as the lasts of the leaves wither away. We stop looking up because the wind is blowing harshly. We burrow in our coats and apathetically, hopelessly wait for flowers to bloom.
But those who bear the cold, stand in the death that is winter, with all its storms and ruthlessness, and keep their eyes up, they are the ones to understand the miracle and mystery of winter, the subtle, hopeful hint that our Creator gives us in reference to our Crosses: that the most celestial, dazzling, truly stunningly beautiful byproduct to ever come from the sky happens in the season of utter demise. Heavenly, sparkling snow does not happen as the earth finally wakes up in its first buds of spring, nor in its warm lazy afternoons in summer, and not even in its imperial glorious landscape of fall. Rather, once everything is dead, that is when heaven sends its reminder of the spotless state of our souls through its majestic, almost other-worldly substance we call snow. And those who keep their eyes up and stand amidst the barren branches and brown grass, looking expectantly at a bleak sky, they are the firsts to see and understand that heaven does not happen amidst flourishing trees or green grass. Rather, heaven falls slowly and softly and beautifully upon those who stand bravely in the lifeless envelopment of winter.
That's what I love about those with heavy Crosses. Because they understand that heaven does not happen once life goes great. They realize that true beauty and fulfillment is other-worldly and not mere good circumstances. They have disciplined their eyes to be sensitive enough to see that it falls amidst the death and despair of our own spiritual winters, our heavy, death-stained crosses.
And that it is in that burden of death that we bear that life and glory and beauty fall down on us, simply comes from knowing the One that carried a much heavier cross than we ever could; the beauty and majesty of knowing and seeing more of Him and simultaneously letting Him kill and wash our sinful selves to be dead and somehow much more alive.
To be covered in His blood with the deepest reds of fall, and yet gloriously white as the first snow.
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