The most endearing thing he’s ever called me is autumn embodied. 

Fill my cup with all the pumpkin drinks and wrap me up in a cozy blanket next to a bonfire. A very real part of me believes that heaven is October eternal. Marriage is loving the season with him, and being his autumn embodied. 

Watching the leaves turn every season is like magic. Warm hues of red, orange, and yellow color the community, and the anticipation of the feasts and lights to come once the branches are bare make the loss worth it. For a few weeks, we drive our usual routes hyper-aware of the beauty in our mundane places and believing that we truly do live amid something magnificent. 

As soon as October came to be this year, I looked for the turning trees. It was still 80 or more degrees in Nashville, but my eyes searched for the changing trees on every road and walking path.  

It dawned on me some number of weeks in that I was looking for particular trees, and they were trees planted in my memory from falls past. 

Blazing images in my mind, I remembered the street corners that usually burn the brightest and the fleeting views on the crests of hills. Specific trees I’ve passed over the last few years pictured perfectly, and my muscle memory knew where to find them. 

Honestly, this fall’s commutes don’t look much different than the last few years.  

Maybe you can relate? 

Work. Church. Home. They’re along the same roads now as they were last year. 

I’ve learned these roads and their peculiarities, including the unique array of trees scattered alongside each of them. And while that may sound lacking in romance, it is beautiful. I’ve memorized where to look for the most blazing display of autumn leaves.  

Only the locals who have stayed long enough to watch the leaves turn season after season know where to find the most brilliant display before peak autumn arrives. 

There’s a level of faithfulness required to know which trees will be most worthy of our attention at their turning. The ones who have walked through the changing of the leaves and into the depths of winter, looked ahead to spring and summer, and come back full circle to fall know the secrets of the trees. 

It’s an oath the trees and I keep to show up every October to witness the peak all over again. 

I honor you, dear one, who has gone through the seasons in this place.  

Those who have stayed aren’t surprised when the blazing array arrive because they know this community; they’ve carefully watched and waited. There’s a certain glory to knowing a place well enough to have the route among the most beautiful autumn trees memorized. 

Only the ones who have stayed know to look for the tall oak tree at the corner of Raywood and Tusculum and its towering yellow blaze next to the small home on the hill. 

Only the ones who have stayed know how the Japanese maples blaze red, coloring that otherwise industrial and gray parking lot. 

Only the ones who have stayed know how the winding back roads glow. They remember the golden canopy of yellow and orange and faint green, and the way it makes you think that song about Tennessee was written about this drive.  

Because of your faithfulness and keen awareness of the community you’re planted in, you know the secrets of the trees. Anyone can enjoy them; but the one who stays many times through their turning knows them with a closeness that only the local can understand. 

It’s honorable to stay in place season after season. To believe in the beauty of the mundane, even as the leaves of the world around you die with a brilliance. To stay, even when you know the bareness is coming. To exalt the glory of God in the blazes as the seasons turn yet again. 

It’s not the only honor this world affords, but I think you should know – you who feel stuck or walking in place – that your commitment to stay through each of those seasons is something good. Special. 

But this isn’t just about trees, is it? 

To have admired the trees from their lush green, to blazing colors, and all the way to the bare branches is honorable. But there’s a part of me that believes that this isn’t just about the trees. The autumn trees provide visual to the deeper truth that in some way this means to help us in our walk with Christ and with His church. 

Who have I walked with through the seasons? Who have I known through the flourishing summers, into the glorious autumn, and out of the dead of winter? Who have I rooted for, believing they would burn a brilliant hue of color during their own changing of seasons? 

Or the even harder question might be: who have I allowed to love me in such a way? 

Watching the autumn leaves at their peak, year after year, has given me a glimpse into the kind intimacy that searches for the good in each changing season. The passersby can know in part. But it’s the faithful ones who anticipate the coming change, lean into the process of it, and find joy in the process of transitioning in place because they know what awaits on the other side. 

The faithful have a keen ability to look for the beauty in the mundane autumn and believe in its coming glory first. The memory you have of the most beautiful autumn trees in your community, and the faith you have to stay and seek it out, is not to be ashamed of. 

It’s a gift to appreciate the same community of trees and people year after year.

As autumn closes this year, may you not despise it. May you embody the glory and courage of an autumn well colored, and extend that glorious courage to those around you too. May you live and love in full embrace of autumn’s turnings, and look for the lovely views in your mundane places.