It's October, and they're beautiful. In our new yard (we just moved to a new place in June), the front tree is glowing gold, and when I went out to rake this evening, Jo spread out in the pile of leaves as if a crinkly mattress.
We've had lovely days lately, though the weather is supposed to turn colder on Thursday. I'm still praying for rain, too--though the sunshine is bright on the reds and oranges. But as we drove north last week, the cornfields stood thirsty, and I know that the leaves are falling even faster than ususal because of the drought.
I don't know when rain will come, but there's faith. I don't know how deep the roots are on the trees that surround me, but they stretch down, far below the surface. There's faith, too.
I'm coming to believe that faith doesn't so much lift us up as pull us down, deeper into the places we live, deeper into the ground from which we were formed, closer to one another, to the stuff of our creation, and to the creator.
That's the only way trees stand, especially in drought times. Deeply rooted underneath and glowing in the sky above.
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