Let the Green Fade

The sunrise turned everything a soft pink this morning, and as I stepped onto the front porch to get a better view of the October sky, I noticed the leaves of our front yard tree had turned a muted maroon.

When did that happen?

I then turned toward the neighbors’ lawn to find the same to be true of their trees—they, too, had changed. In fact, as I scanned the neighborhood lawns, there wasn’t much green to be found at all. All of it had faded, just as these October days have, running together in a mixture of citrine, amber, and maroon.

As the sun rose a bit higher, blushy tones and golden hues began to bathe the cornfield just across the way in ethereal light. And as I stood there scratching my head about the mystery of time passing, joy and grief found me.

Beauty and sadness mixed, and the soft breeze rustling those maroon leaves had me rubbing at the ache in the center of my chest as I whispered a plea-filled prayer.

Time, please, slow down.

There are days when I feel as if I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes between when my eyes open in the morning and when they close at night. There are moments when I feel like a thousand versions of me filter through the hours, and when I finally get a chance to sit down and just be, I’m winded. Disoriented. Stumped by the passing of time and how a day can turn into an entire season—all the leaves losing their green—before I get the chance to look up and notice.

I rebel against it as much as I can, curling my hands into tight fists. But I’m finding the more I try to keep a grip on time, the more of a hold it has on me. So, I’m trying to let go.

Surrender is a word I balk against on a good day, let alone on days when my chest aches with the anxiety of all this change—of all the things I can’t seem to keep up with.

But on those mornings when I choose to step outside underneath a pink sky, pausing from the passing of time, the wind whispers through the fading green that these winds of change aren’t meant to harm, but heal. Being infinite isn’t the goal, nor do I believe noticing every little thing about our lives is, actually. God knows we are finite—He knows we are dust. He knows we try our best to hold everything together in our clay hands, but that sometimes, time slips through the gaps in our fingers. Things fall, and so do we.

I’m beginning to wonder if that’s where the real glory is.

Like the trees, we might look up one day to find that our green is fading, too. I know mine has. That amidst the busyness and chaos of everyday life, new colors are emerging. If you’re like me, you might be startled by this. Perplexed. Anxious. Feeling the ache of who you thought you’d be by now and who you actually are. Cursing the days gone by and telling yourself and God that you’ll do better, be better.

But I don’t think the trees curse the passing of time. I don’t think their maroon shades cause anxiety or fear. And I certainly don’t think God ever expects us to do or be better. At least, not in the way most of us try to be, anyway.

I think the trees understand that each season requires something different in order to evolve—to grow. That each new color points to a new invitation, a new path, meant for their good.

And I think God does the same thing in us, too.

In her book, Wintering, Katherine May talks about this process of the trees losing their green in autumn, just before winter. It’s called abscission. She explains that the green fades because the chlorophyll begins to break down. What emerges, she says, are colors that were always present in the leaf, just masked by the abundance of green pigment.

The maroons, golds, oranges, and ambers that famously mark the season of autumn don’t just appear out of thin air. They were always there—always present in the leaf—waiting for the green to fade so they could share their glory with the world.

As the seasons turn, so do we. Our green might fade, but the core of who we are doesn’t. Colors that have always existed within us emerge to remind us that time is always passing, yes, but it’s evidence that we are always growing— always becoming, and that is a beautiful thing. Terrifying, yes… sometimes. But beautiful all the same.

Maybe we can take a lesson from the trees and let ourselves go. How scandalous, in a culture that strives and bleeds to prove we’re something worthwhile, would it be to just let go? To let our green fade? To let die what needs to die without clenching our jaws and rubbing our temples? To let our own maroons shine through—to let those citrine hues have their moment without judging them or trying to change them? I wonder then, what new paths might emerge. What new growth might burst forth from the ground?

And what if we allowed the passing of time and the changes it brings to remind us that being human was always the goal?

That sounds an awful lot like grace.

I snapped a picture of the sky this morning, all blushy and molten, and as I shut the front door behind me and entered back into the demands of the day, I whispered a different prayer—a different plea.

God, be near.

With you on the journey,

Celia

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Inhale: O, God.

Exhale: Be near.

*If you’d like to learn more about the practice of breath prayer, download this complete digital guide to practicing breath prayer.

A regular practice of reflection helps us recognize what’s going on beneath the surface of our souls so we can name it in the Lord’s presence. Because as we learn to name what we feel, what we need, and what we long for, we’re also learning to discern the Spirit’s sweet, gentle voice within our hearts and lives.

Take a few moments this week to journal or contemplate with the Holy Spirit the following question(s) or prompt(s):

What new colors do you see emerging within you?

How might you honor the changes present in your life?

If you’re looking for contemplative resources or gifts for loved ones, check out my Etsy shop, The Beholding Co., where I offer an array of breath prayer cards, a Lectio Divina bookmark, and digital guides to certain spiritual practices.

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