Photo by Fred Kuipers
It’s only sixty degrees outside – the coldest day of September so far. There is a bite to the air. The wind whips between the trees and the leaves that have started to turn are ripped off of their branches. Fall may have officially begun a week ago – but today is the first day it actually feels like autumn.
I can feel the cold in my fingers. I grabbed my wool cardigan off the back of my office chair where it has been draped since last March. The sleeves are pulled all the way down to my fingertips, like mittens with finger holes cut out of them.
There has been a drastic difference in the landscape in the past week. The greens of the fields turned a brilliant yellow, but that has faded into the customary brown of beans and corn waiting in the fields for harvest.
And once again we are reminded that our lives are fragile, that we grow and flourish and age and wilt. Although we are promised life by our God, we still must move through and experience death. One of the community hospice agencies called me this afternoon with news of a member. We are playing phone-tag, but I’m already preparing in my heart for a funeral.