Winds blow and seasons change. Spring is a time of rebirth, and autumn of dying off. Right? We tend to think of the seasons in order: spring, summer, autumn, and winter (and phooey to whoever said winter is the final season.) But is winter really the end?
Like the seasons, our lives are constantly in flux, and we can embrace the changes. Or not.
Spring may be the time of new birth, but that’s not where new life begins. My tulips that are coming up didn’t suddenly, magically appear from nothing. I had to put bulbs in the ground, and I had to wait, through the winter months, to see the first results. That was four or five years ago, and now, being the tubers that they are, they are coming up in new locations too.
Autumn is not so much a time of death and dying as it is making room and making ready for the new. Seeds dropped in the ground go through a transformation to become a flower or a stalk of corn or a pine tree. They don’t remain the same; what they begin as ceases to be so that what they are created to become can be.
Not so different for us.
We have autumns in our lives when something we have held onto, something untrue, something we have outgrown, must fall off—or die—so that truth can abide, so that we can grow and mature.
As I sat outside today, thinking on what to write for this post, I pondered the sky. The bright spring blue. And I thought of autumn, when the sky is a deep, rich azure.
Autumn is a time when life slows down. I don’t mean the pace we humans put ourselves through. I mean nature. Plants go dormant, bears ready themselves for hibernation. Leaves, well, fall. And cast a magnificent carpet on the earth.
But what of our lives? What is the autumn season in our lives? Is there that earthy aroma, that sense that something is dying off? Why do we think of that as a bad thing? I look back over the years, the many seasons, in my life, and I am oh! so grateful that some of my past has died and fallen away. I’m ever so thankful I’m not the person I was, even a few years ago. Even last year. I’ve grown, like an oak, and am stronger and a better person than I was in the past.
But it didn’t happen without a few autumns and winters. Of course there are the spring and summers. But what happens if we don’t let go of what must die?
Ever watch the show, Hoarders?
I could write volumes about that. I did it for years, not hoarding per se, but holding on. I held on to beliefs—lies—about myself, about our heavenly Father. About the Truth even. You remember the snake? The lying, deceiving enemy of all we are? He made sure to keep me distracted so I couldn’t learn the Truth.
But guess what. Greater is He who is in and with us!
One definition of autumn includes, “A period of maturity verging on decline.” Which has a negative implication to it. Again, decline is not a bad thing. Didn’t Father God Himself have a day of rest? Doesn’t He expect us to do the same?
When the nights become crisp again, and football and marching bands fill the air, when campfires and flannel are emerging, and winds turn bitter, we know it’s another transition. A season of letting go, of introspection and communion with Father. Listen, and hear His voice. What is He telling us to release, to plant for harvest in the spring? What must go to make room for the new? What will we prune away? What are we willing to let Father prune away?
The campfire burned bright, marshmallows turning golden then crispy. I reached for the pack of chocolate bars when…
“I once said I should write down all the story ideas in my head so someone could write them someday. I had no idea at the time that someone was me!
Ms. Mason has been writing since 1995, and began working in earnest on her debut novel, Tessa in 2013. She resides in the Upstate of South Carolina since 1988. Besides Tessa, she has Clara Bess, book two in her unsavory heritage series. She is currently working on Cissy, the third and final book in the series. It will be released in September of this year.
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