Very soon, our little part of the world will become a feast for the senses. The trees will don their colors of crimson, amber, and gold, glowing beautifully in the soft light of shorter days. Pumpkins, in all their new colors, will appear on porches and line the edges of fields, a quiet signal of the changing season. And if we’re lucky, the warm scent of spiced apple cider or a freshly baked pumpkin pie will drift through our kitchens, stirring up memories from long ago. All of it—a contrast to the bright, sun-soaked season we just left behind. The laughter and heat of summer will soon fade, making room for something quieter, deeper.
I used to rush these transitions. I used to be the person who always looked forward—what’s next? What’s coming? What can I plan for? The problem with constantly looking into the next season is that we miss the blessings of the now. And before we realize it, time has moved on. We look back and wonder where it went, only to find that it blurred past us while we were distracted by what was ahead. Thankfully, as I have gotten older, I have learned to savor each season as it comes. Age and experience have taught me something invaluable: the present is where life actually happens.
Something shifted in me last year when my mother passed away. Life became short and oh so important. I sat with her moment by moment in her hospital room and treasured each one. Time seemed to slow down, and I was able to make final memories with her. Even the tiniest memory, the simplest thing, was valuable to me, and my guess is that it was to her too. Information of her history was passed on to me. Recipes were shared. Pictures were held and reminisced on and even the silent moments were precious. And oh, the last hours, minutes, moments of her life! I cannot begin to describe the privilege of being present for that transition. It is beyond sacred. I recognized that not everyone gets those invaluable moments with a loved one at the end of their life. Those 4 weeks were a season within a season-an autumn of their own. Beautiful and heartbreaking. Filled with emotion and memory. Bitter because I knew the end was coming. Sweet because I was there, fully present. And that presence, that slowing down, that savoring—it changed me.
Now, as the leaves begin to fall and the world quiets itself for the colder days ahead, I find myself doing the same. I no longer wish the days away or hurry the calendar forward. Instead, I try to meet each season as it comes with gratitude, attention, and a sense of reverence. Because time isn’t something to race through, it is something to live. And life, even in its most painful moments, is an extraordinary gift.
As I reflect on the seasons of nature, of life, of joy, and of grief- I am reminded of the words from Ecclesiastes Chapter 3: “There is a time for everything, and everything on earth will happen at the right time.”
There is a time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to uproot. A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to hold on and a time to let go. These words offer us more than poetic beauty—they offer us perspective. Life isn’t meant to be rushed through or understood all at once. It unfolds according to God’s timetable, and even when we can’t make sense of it, we can trust that He is at work.
“He has made everything beautiful in its time.”
What a profound promise. Not everything is beautiful, but everything will be made beautiful in its time—even sorrow, even loss. Even the days we don’t understand, God, in His perfect wisdom, is weaving it all into a story far greater than we can imagine. And though we carry eternity in our hearts, we must humbly accept that we cannot begin to understand what God has done from beginning to end.
So don’t rush. Live each season fully. Savor the warmth of a pie baking in the oven, the rustle of falling leaves, the laughter of loved ones, and yes, even the stillness of grief. Because every moment holds meaning, every season has purpose. And in His time, it will all be made beautiful.
Let that truth encourage you as we step into the days ahead—whatever they may hold.
