I remember the autumn my grandparents drove the east coast - from Maine all the way down to Florida (I believe) - and how much my grandma loved the changing colors; the explosions of oranges, yellows, reds, and golds that marked the trip for them. Shortly after their return, we grandkids discovered some Hobby Lobby faux-leaves that my grandma had twisty-tied to the big tree out front - a sort of token and warm-hearted protest against the indifference of the greens and browns of north-east Dallas. The joy with which she formed her protest and the memory of her laughter at herself mark for me the bittersweetness of the season. Bittersweet because I miss her. And sweet because the winding-down of life and light gives way again to advent - the advent of the Lord who saves, redeems, even soft light days like these and speaks the 'Yes' of God. The vesper light is full with hope, and the hope is the light of Christ.
So here we are in softer light again, and Bek and Annie and I pray to mark these days with expectant hope and gladness. For us, this takes the shape of simple tasks by which we practice being present to earthy things - like dirt and leaves and twisty ties - and also to one another, and most of all to God. This fall, Bek and I are trying our hand at a fall garden, and I will try to carve a half-dozen gourds or so before All Hallows' Eve. I'm grateful for these ordinary days and for the God who has so wonderfully condescended to meet us even here.
Bek, master gardener at work
Annie and me, master photographers, goofing around while Bek works
We planted three types of tomatoes, some chocolate mint, cucumber, and squash.
Pumpkin # 1, Grandpa Munster
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