the only hope of fall
October has flown by, along with most of the leaves, but the geese still waddle around the pond close to our home.
November settles around us, not radiating like brightness of last month, but subtly, softly glowing. November has a darker backdrop, less leaves; it gives us a beautiful picture of the remnant; November provides us one of the few times that death is visibly stunning, only when it precedes new life.
Perhaps if these were the last leaves to ever grow, their brilliant colors would fill us with certain dread and doom. If each tree that joined the ranks of barrenness would never see leaves again, our autumn would fill us with panic. But we know, we have seen the seasons change for decades, reliable as time itself, that life will follow this death. And this is the only factor that allows us to celebrate Autumn in its glory.
Oh that I would see the death in my own life with such faith! Each time my plans crumble, or my pride shattered. Each time I pour out my life for another, each act of selflessness, each choice we make that reflects our Father's heart and not our fleshly hopes, each time my own wants are put aside. If I saw the nights I cried myself to sleep, or screamed Why?! for the eightieth time, or each pang of anxiety from the instability as a glorious death that will surely, certainly, absolutely precede new life as sure as the coming spring, perhaps I would watch the brittle leaves fall in my heart with awe. Perhaps I would be astounded by their beauty rather than grasping at them to stay alive, for their colors scream the glory that makes death undeniably beautiful, and the One more trustworthy than time itself has promised us this very hope.
November settles around us, not radiating like brightness of last month, but subtly, softly glowing. November has a darker backdrop, less leaves; it gives us a beautiful picture of the remnant; November provides us one of the few times that death is visibly stunning, only when it precedes new life.
Perhaps if these were the last leaves to ever grow, their brilliant colors would fill us with certain dread and doom. If each tree that joined the ranks of barrenness would never see leaves again, our autumn would fill us with panic. But we know, we have seen the seasons change for decades, reliable as time itself, that life will follow this death. And this is the only factor that allows us to celebrate Autumn in its glory.
Oh that I would see the death in my own life with such faith! Each time my plans crumble, or my pride shattered. Each time I pour out my life for another, each act of selflessness, each choice we make that reflects our Father's heart and not our fleshly hopes, each time my own wants are put aside. If I saw the nights I cried myself to sleep, or screamed Why?! for the eightieth time, or each pang of anxiety from the instability as a glorious death that will surely, certainly, absolutely precede new life as sure as the coming spring, perhaps I would watch the brittle leaves fall in my heart with awe. Perhaps I would be astounded by their beauty rather than grasping at them to stay alive, for their colors scream the glory that makes death undeniably beautiful, and the One more trustworthy than time itself has promised us this very hope.
Comments
Post a Comment