Autumn!

Of all the equinoxes, the autumnal really is my favorite, by far. (Ok - I know. There are only two equinoxes, but it sounded so good in my head that I just had to give that opening the chance to live, in black and white, for at least one brilliant, blazing moment.) It's true, though. Fall is my favorite time of year. Granted, there are some parts of fall that I could do without; namely raking, football, and the impending doom of winter. The last one is especially heinous, but I've chosen to overlook it and maintain Autumn as the season I look forward to most of all anyway.

What is it about this glorious time of year that is so refreshing? I love the crisp air and the cool evenings. After a summer of humidity so thick you can chop it with a cleaver, it's nice to be able to sit outside and declare casually, "You know - it's a bit chilly out tonight. I think I might need a sweater." The best part, of course, is that you never actually get up and go and get said sweater, opting instead to be chilly just for the novelty of it. The thrum of the cicadas is replaced by the hum of the combines, their lights burning away, late into the night, in ever smaller circles on distant, hilltop fields. The heady scent of chlorophyll and pollen is replaced by the more demure aromas of dusty apples and (unfortunately) heavy-laden ragweed plants. The sunsets are softer. The pace of life slower, and there is an expectation of the end in the air. Ahhh - the end! That, really, is what I love most of all about Fall.

You see - I am a starter. If ever you should find me grinning with a group of friends in a jail cell, you will know that whatever plan got us there was probably hatched by me. I am always leaping before I look. Getting my cart before the horse. Counting my chickens before they hatch, and whatever other idiom applies to people who don't have the sense to stop and think a moment before tearing off down the road toward some new adventure. I guess the way I see it is that Autumn is God's annual loud-speaker announcement to me that it is alright to stop. Cease. Desist. Rest - even in the middle of a project. The gentle droop of my tomato plants and the dry rustle in the corn fields is not a signal to God to work harder, to do more, to try one last thing to bring forth fruitfulness in the earth. When fall comes, all things find closure - from the tired tomatoes, to the worn corn plants, to the budding weeds just staring to grow in the path. In His goodness, God truly did ordain a time to plant, and a time to reap.

So, fall is when I take a step back from the hundreds of little projects that I have set before myself, and take time to reflect. What things in my life have proven fruitful and deserve, now, to have their rest? What seeds and new things have I been busily collecting, sorting, storing, preparing, that now I should plant and walk away from for a season? What budding pet undertaking is it time to acknowledge as a weed in my path and let it go, promising and exciting though it may be? What things should I let die away in order to put my energy into the vital roots that must go deep if I am to survive the winter ahead?

It was chilly this evening as I walked out to shut my hens in for the night and check on the baby chicks, huddled under their heat lamp. On the way past my garden I noted that the annuals seemed to be the saddest of all the plants left. Their vigor and energy and ability to always set on a new fruit or stem seems to have left them, and they seem left startled to have come to the end of themselves and their own abilities and desires. God, I pray that I might not just be a busy annual. The biennials, likewise, are despondent. There is a hint of desperation in the last growing season of these two-year wonders. Wise enough to conserve for one winter, they fail to plan for any more, and end up all used up by their own initiative and pursuit of desired outcomes. Lord, let me be more than a short-lived burn out in your garden. It is only the perennials who maintain a hint of dignity and a promise of future usefulness this time of year. To be sure, they are tired like all the others, but rather than dreading the killing frost, they welcome it as a signal to stop their labors and take their rest. In that rest will come renewal, and with it is the assurance of  season upon season upon season of new starts and fresh tasks ahead. Lord, grant that I may learn the Autumn lessons you labor to teach me, so I can be rooted and find my rest in you and be perennially fruitful for your glory.

Moving On

My grandfather was an antique dealer, and I grew up going to auctions with him. I loved the rhythmic rise and fall as the auctioneer cried for a higher bid. I loved the colorful patchwork of decades of someone's life splayed out on hay racks and folding tables. I loved the smell of auctions - oftentimes part old lady, part wood shop, part fresh fruit pie from the lunch wagon, and just a hint of mustiness in the mix that clung to your fingers after you thumbed through piles and poked around in boxes.

Grandpa had a knack for knowing what things were - the things that no one else would be able to identify. The auctiongoers around us would pick something up gingerly, examine it, and turn it over in their hands. Often the item would have a hidden spring or recessed hinge that would cause it to dance briefly and unexpectedly, and the holder to jump back in startled surprise, then look around sheepishly to see if anyone had noticed. My grandpa always noticed, and covertly pointed out the incident so we could share in the fun together.  When it was time for the item to be held up in the ring, the auctioneer would stumble along, searching for an explanation, until he finally pulled out one of the standard favorites, like, "You don't find many of these around anymore..." or "I don't know what it is, but it's a good one. Who'll give me ten dollars?" And off he'd go.

After bidding once or twice against a hesitant and curious opponent, my grandpa would invariably win the prize, and be invited to share what it was by the auctioneer. Then, eyes twinkling, he'd bring to life a piece of rustic, primitive American history for the gathered crowd with both his practical demonstration and his earthy, comfortable storytelling. After taking it home and cleaning it up, he'd write out a tag for it in his meticulous handwriting, and it would be sold within a day or two - a piece of someone's past rescued for another generation to treasure. He was a mover of goods in the best of possible ways. I still turn to find him and share a half smile or a quiet chuckle when I see someone puzzling over a mysterious piece of Americana at my local auction house. But, nowadays the joke is always on me since he's been gone for almost ten years. I miss him terribly.

I am thinking of him this evening because, I, too have been given the task of moving goods, and I am at a loss. Just like my grandpa, I know all too well the value and importance and history of the items before me, but I am finding myself unable to preserve the treasure, as he did so well. So, instead, the things I am tasked with moving will be packed into boxes and given away -  no meticulous label, no way to convey what they mean to me.

I did fine with the underwear and socks. The cosmetics didn't even give me pause as I threw away what was used, and donated the rest. The nondescript, long-sleeved shirts and black leggings were easy to fold and lay aside. However, when I got to my mother-in-law's jacket an hour or so ago, I had to stop. As I pulled it from the hanger, I was caught up by the smell of her coat and the sound of her coat and feel of her coat, and could almost imagine that instead of me wrapping my arms around an empty garment, it was her wrapping her arms around me. I wanted to believe that when I opened my eyes I would see her smiling in more than just my memory - wanted to have one more moment with her, even if it was stolen out of those difficult, painful last few months. But, it was not meant to be. The coat hung slack and vacant in my hands, and the smell of her perfume dissipated in my living room and soon disappeared entirely.

To be honest, I was surprised to have had to leave the coat hanging over a chair and take time to cry and remember. This is most likely her last batch of clothing - the last of many, many that I have gone through and moved on since she died in April. It was indescribably difficult to walk away from a consignment store rack filled with her colorful dresses and signature vests this summer, and I thought that by having achieved that task I was done with the grieving, done with the difficulty, done with the memories. I guess I was wrong. I know, now, that I am not my grandfather, and it is not my gift to be a mover of things.

In the letting in and letting go, the moving out and moving on - in this auction called life, where we all, at times, find ourselves bidding on the unknown and praying for a kind storyteller and a merciful auctioneer to come to our aid when we are suddenly lost and bewildered, I think that I am meant to be a mover not of goods, but of memories. It's true - I cannot keep her coat forever, but will always know what it felt like to be hugged by her, to be loved by her. That coat itself could never convey those things to anyone, but perhaps I can. I will trade in meticulous handwritten tags for late-night, hurriedly-typed blog entries, and know that the outcome of the two tasks is ultimately the same - a precious piece of the past, rescued for future generations to treasure.

Bypass the Good to Reach for the Best

I can never seem to get over just how busy life is, especially at the start of a new school year. There are classes to fit in, books to pick out, field trips to attend, new friends to meet, and so much more. I am blessed beyond my wildest dreams with opportunities to learn, grow, share, play, dream, volunteer – the list goes on and on. It seems like every day brings new, wonderful activities into my life. The question I often face isn’t what can I do, but what should I do? Or, more accurately, what should I do without?

It occurred to me one evening this past week, as I dove into bed, utterly exhausted, after midnight, that I had had a wonderful and productive day. Sure, my school time with the girls was shorter and more rushed than I would have liked it to be, and I ended up having to grab a fast-food lunch because my morning appointment went longer than expected, but I had gotten so many things done – good things! As I lied in the state just between dreamland and the real world, I looked back at all the good things I’d done during the past week, and the many more good things on my calendar for the weeks to come. Many, many more good things. Suddenly I was more than just tired. I was weary.

How was it that I had come to dread the busyness of my days, when they were filled pursuing what I knew to be fruitful endeavors? As I started to go over the responsibilities that I had for the next day, I realized that I need to gather the library items that were due. We make a trip to the local library each Friday. It’s a highlight for my children, since books hold such magic and possibility. Library day is like Christmas to them. For a moment, I was absorbed in the happy thought of how much fun we would have on our weekly ritual together, until I realized that the best part of library day for my girls isn’t picking out the books, but the promise that we will read them together.

You see, it isn’t the place or the people or even the books themselves that makes library day one of their favorite days of the week. It is the fact that checking out a book, to them, is like putting down earnest money on snuggle time with mom – no distractions, no schedules, no phone calls. My heart sank when I realized just how many of those books from last week had been left unread because we were busy doing other things. Good things, mind you, but things that got in the way of the best thing of all – just being together. Had I really been trading in my best life for the many good things that had fallen in my path?

The only way I finally found sleep (and peace) that night was to make a promise to myself to do something about this profound night-time revelation. It has not been easy, and I have been amazed at how much of a constant struggle it is to say, “no” to things that are worthy and good in order to save time and energy for the best things – the ones I know are what I want to pursue. Difficult, to be sure, but worth it. I measure my success over every lingering lunch and snuggly story book - far greater rewards than I had felt in all of my busy good deeds.

Parents - I invite you to join me this school year in acknowledging that there is only so much of you to go around, and that’s ok. For this brief period in time we have a heavy responsibility to a few precious people who deserve all that we have to give them. To those who don't have children, or who have already blinked and seen their children grow up, I invite you to join me as well. After all, perhaps in the end the sign of a truly successful life isn't necessarily in how much good you did, but how much of the best you reveled in. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some children and a husband who want to be with me, and I can't imagine anything better than that.