By Allison Bucher
It’s almost fall again. Which means that while we change into our flannels, the trees change into their autumn ball gowns in anticipation of the coming season. Isn’t it funny how they just seem to know? They light themselves on fire, dancing in the glow of ambers and vermilions.
My friend recently reminded me that if trees didn’t lose their leaves, they’d die. They’d suffocate under the dead weight of foliage meant to be shed every autumn. And I wonder why it’s so hard to let go of things we know are weighing us down.
Why do we hold onto the things that we know are killing us? Why do we allow ourselves to suffer? Why do we allow ourselves to be suffocated under the weight of things we once found to be beautiful, now piled on top of us, shoulders sinking, backs bowing, under the weight of the death of our pasts. How long do we let ourselves mourn the loss of our dreams, our ambitions, or our hopes? The loss of who we once were and all we are yet to be.
“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here” (2 Corinthians 5:17)!
It is difficult to carry beautiful things if our arms are full of what once was. But we cling tightly to the things that no longer serve us. We, as humans, crave joy, but joy is terrifying. It’s as fleeting as the leaves on autumn trees, and that’s why we’re so afraid of it. Because we never know how long it will last. We are terrified of feeling it because we are terrified of losing it.
Autumn is pure magic. It’s somehow cold, yet so radiantly warm. Until one day you blink and look around at bare trees, once on fire, now covered in the ashes of autumn. A world previously filled with the warmth of neon evening suns, now a dry, desolate wash of gray. It seems nature knows how to let go of things.
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1).
But how do we follow in its footsteps? How do we stand in the middle of winter and let the death of so many things in our lives actually cleanse us? How do we stand still in winter and stop mourning the loss of autumn and stop anticipating the coming of spring and allow ourselves to just be?
I like winter because it’s quiet. It’s still. It passes through unhurried. I remember walking outside during winter a few years ago, before the sun or most humans were awake and stepping out into brisk, deafening silence under a blanket of sleepy stars. And the same friend that reminded me of the leaves, told me how stars are born and dying all the time, even now as you read this. Like I said, nature just seems to know how to let go.
But we become fixated on the “dying” part. Because from here, death feels unknown. Yet in Christ, what waits for us is certain. And while we dwell in these earthly bodies, there are pieces of us that must be surrendered so something greater can be formed. It’s a cycle, never-ending shift of seasons in our lives and with that comes the sobering realization that we are not free from the same harsh winters the trees endure.
We, too, can bask in the glory of our own autumns, but we must also stand in the ashes of what once was so when we look around, we can see clearly and dream of all that we can become. Painters typically start with a blank canvas for this very same reason — wide open space to dream.
So instead of hurrying winter, think about all that it could teach us. Think about all that it allows us to see. We wouldn’t appreciate the warmth of summer without experiencing winter, nor would we appreciate the beauty of fall and spring without witnessing colorless trees. We can find and feel joy in all seasons, even winter. We just have to look a little harder for it sometimes.
So, what do we need to shed? What do we need to put down in order to be able to spread our arms wide open and embrace all of the beautiful things in our future? And where can you find joy right now, no matter what season of life you’re experiencing?
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