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I can’t help but notice the change the earth continually undergoes.
Just a few weeks ago, driving through the Virginia and Carolina Blue Ridge, the mountain palette grabbed me and forced my eyes to gaze at its color. I wait for that time of year–when trees lose their greens and instead show off their warmer hues, the reds and oranges; when wind brings in the arctic air, not made stale by thunderhead or summer sun; when smells of burnt wood turn my head, and I search for the fire’s plume of smoke.
Now, though, the reds, oranges, and yellows give way to crumpled, decrepit brown. Leaves fall to the ground and crack underfoot. The wind, while still corralling the fresh air, is almost too mean, slapping my skin when it rolls through the valley and over the hills.
But this season, when flora fully perishes, charms me in its own way. Soon orange and yellow give way to red and green. Between the blusters of wind, I can almost hear songs of the Incarnation. And though earth dons the grays of her seasonal death, we celebrate our glorious Life.
Indeed, one season has passed. Another is not far.
Michael Reneau 