Walking along the woodland path at Cherry Fields recently, I found myself slowing down. The path was carpeted with fallen leaves in shades of gold, amber and deep red. There was something quietly beautiful about it. Only a few weeks earlier, those same leaves had been full of life, catching the summer sunshine. Now they rested on the ground, crunching beneath my feet.
Every autumn, millions of trees quietly do something that most of us find surprisingly difficult. They let go. Leaves that have spent months growing, capturing sunlight and bringing life simply drift to the ground. No resistance. No panic. No desperate attempt to cling on. They simply release what has served its purpose.
We're often different. We hold on to old disappointments, past mistakes, treasured memories, old habits and sometimes even yesterday's successes. We tell ourselves that holding on somehow keeps us safe, when in reality it can stop us embracing what lies ahead. Autumn isn't the season when the trees stop growing. It's the season when they grow differently.
Through the prophet Isaiah, God says, "Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?" (Isaiah 43:18–19). These words aren’t asking us to ignore the past. There are lessons to learn, memories to treasure and people we should never forget. But we are invited not to live there. If we become so focused on what was, we may miss the new thing already beginning.
The hope I have found in Jesus always points me forwards. His forgiveness means my past no longer defines me. God is always quietly preparing the ground for something new.
Perhaps that's the lesson the trees have been teaching all along. They are not giving up; they are getting ready.
What looks like an ending is actually preparation. Beneath the surface, roots continue to grow. Energy is being stored. New buds are already beginning to form, even though they won't appear until spring.
The next time I walk through Cherry Fields, I know the leaves will crunch beneath my feet just as they did this week. But I suspect I'll see them differently. Instead of seeing what the tree has lost, I'll be reminded of what it's preparing for.
Perhaps that's a question worth carrying with us this October: What am I holding on to that I need to release?
Because perhaps the most beautiful new beginnings don't start with holding on a little tighter, but with having the courage to let go.
