They give their life for the harvest.
The leaves too, give a last shout, in denial of what is to come, a red and orange and yellow party as they fade to brown. They served a purpose and the shade they gave is gone. Their death has come too, leaving a skeleton. Rain, the cleansing tears, breaks the last thread clinging to what was or what they planned to be, stripping all away to the ground.
A certain kind of death comes to us all.
But sometimes it feels we are just a skeleton left standing bare for all to see our nakedness and life is a messy pile at our feet.
Then the snow comes, the horizon is shimmering, blinding whiteness, against our black thin form. What we are is revealed against His glory, and there is a broken beauty in the barrenness.
And if we don't let go of what was, or still focus our gaze on what is right now, we will never see the vision of what is to come.
One stubborn bloom on dead wood in autumn
Spring will come. Rain will bring life once again. The wind will blow promises. And the autumn and winter of soul will be but a memory.
Take heart friends.
This is only a season.
Sharing today for Bigger Picture Moments and Imperfect Prose.