I worry too much. Autumn trees ask me not to worry. They, like Jesus, suggest trust rather than worry. So often in autumn I want to go lean my head against a tree and ask what it feels like to lose so much, to be so empty, so detached, to take off one’s shoes that well, and then simply to stand and wait for God’s refilling. It sounds so simple, so easy. It isn’t easy. But it’s possible.
“The Sacrament of Letting Go” Macrina Wiederkehr, Seasons of Your Heart
Could I, too, stand with my face against the rough bark of a tree and ask it how it does it, stand, naked, helpless, empty, with only a wait on God to replenish?
My own leaves have left me, the barrenness of my branches exposed. And winter is coming, sooner than I’d like. God, I am helpless to fill myself, protect myself. You are the One who will protect and watch over me in this emptiness, this season of pause. And You are also the One who will give me the nutrients needed, the One who will once again grow my leaves.
Teach me to hold to you when I am exposed in the elements, that resilience begins in the heart, trust, a seed of faith nestled in the ground that grows my roots. These are seasons, they all have their place. For the long, barren winter, let me believe that there is no such thing as wasted space, that underneath the cover of cold and snap of snow, life pauses, ready, preparing to be refilled, take shape, begin.
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