Autumn is a hymn today, a low, gentle tribute to Greatness. The trees sway along, arms raised high in their slow rhythmic worship. Back and forth. Back and forth. Swish. Swish. Until I am carried up into their praise. Have I been so silent that they must cry out? The small seeds drop. Their masting is thunderous, punctuating the song as the best of percussionist. Do they know they are falling to their death?
We all know the story, that one of redemption of the lost. We know the losing isn't the end. But, when it's your own story and it takes dying and winter before spring, you think that death is the last word. And what you learn is that it also takes one word to remind you that the long, slow growth to sprouting limbs and leaves and fruit of your own requires an active trust, the kind that abides in the hope of spring tucked away under cold earth. The promise is planted deep, and we only need watch with bated breath for its arrival.