Listen, November Speaks

“Nature should be read as one of God’s books which he made to reveal himself.”-                                                                                                                  Richard Baxter, 1656

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Saturday the brittle sound of brokenness cracks loud. Metal tines scrape and drag the piles of russet brown and speckled gold debris that just 40 days ago still swayed green above my head.

Not so now.

The garden has the musky smell of things dying and returning to the earth. I pull the last of the purple coneflowers and black-eyed Susans. Their roots resist like they don’t know it’s their time to go.

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

   a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot…

The rake cuts deep into the dirt and its handle cuts deep into me. Skin separates from the crook of my thumb. There is blood.

I never wear gloves and sometimes I think this is not the best idea, but it doesn’t stop me from reaching into the dark places to pull out the spent blooms because I want to feel all of it. In April, I touch a stem and leaf’s beginnings and in November I touch their endings.

I need to touch the message of the gospel with my bare hands.

scooping dirt

A hard thing indeed, this time to uproot.

All those tendrils and root- wisps have a strength that belie their size as they cling cling cling to the life they know is still in the dirt.

Sometimes it takes muscle.
Sometimes it takes a cutting away.
Sometimes it takes blood, sweat and tears.

I grip a mottled stem still green in places and pull. The slow ascent of the stem begins as I pull harder harder harder until it finally rips apart from its home in the ground.

hands around stems

Life does not depart easily. Yet when November whispers, “It is time to go” the trees and flowers eventually bow down and give up their leaves.

The melancholy of November is the melancholy of the gospel.
It is the beginning of a coming darkness.

hands in dirt

For me, November speaks of darkness coming to another garden. A garden wet with its own spilled blood, sweat and tears. A garden where Jesus asks His father twice, if at all possible, if there is any other way, perhaps he, too could stay earthbound.

…yet not my will, but yours be done.

Nobody, no living thing, ever wants to die. It wasn’t part of the original plan. Nothing about death seems right.

Trees without leaves, a child without his mama, a mama without her baby, a man without his wife. Must the ground claim everything?

It used to be after the glorious shower of Autumn was over and the landscape was left brown and wanting, a dark shadow would come and live at the edges of my thoughts. In New England, the barrenness of November can mean a wait of almost six months before new life springs from the ground again and for some of us this would mean a silent fight to keep joy.

leaves and lampost

Now, when clouds hang low and twilight comes early, the message of the gospel resounds in the rustle of fallen leaves. All is well because the darkness holds no power. It can only point to a coming light.

The gloom of the cross held for a moment, but could not keep, the most glorious of Light, Jesus. The ground could not claim Him. And because of Him, it will never claim us.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.

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These days I embrace November and her message of the gospel.
Darkness has no claim over me.

Joy pushes past the edges of my thoughts and I smile at the crackle of leaves as I stand in an empty garden.

I know what’s coming.

(Listen here to “Light Of The World, You Stepped Down Into Darkness”)