Welcome, Old Friend!

Autumn. The sky is gray, the air crisp and my heart is happy. Yesterday, I saw a shower of tiny, warm yellow leaves pooling on the sidewalk. I ate pancakes with maple syrup and tasted the season. It was sweet.

I am not sure when it began, this love of fall. The vibrant green of the July cornfield in my backyard growing up was gorgeous, but it never stood a chance against the afternoon sun setting alight withered September husks in firey, golden glow.

My family attended a small, rural church and each fall (closer to Thanksgiving, I believe), the harvest was brought to the altar. Our normally stark stage and stairs were awash in rich color. Mason jars filled with canned tomatoes, peaches, pears and homemade spiced applesauce rubbed shoulders with boxes of Jiffy cornbread mix, sacks of flour and Campbell's soups. Dried, golden cornstalks were tied to the pulpit, anchored by an assortment of bright pumpkins. Beautiful as the scene must be, these weren't mere decorations. Each jar, can and box had a purpose. They were distributed by elders and deacons to those in need. The feast for the eyes became a feast for hungering stomachs.

Each summer, I hunger for fall. Each fall, I feel hunger. I am provided for and my stomach is content, but as my old friend autumn begins to slowly settle in, I want more. For me, fall is a piece of heaven, sweetness, rest. There is, in the cooling air, a sort of permission to walk slowly, to drink in the new climate. As children settle into school and farmers clear their fields, the world around me just seems to stretch and take a big, long-awaited breath before the harsh cold of winter. I stretch along with it. I take long strolls and sip steaming cups of cinnamon tea. I rejoice in the harvest. I bake bread, pies and pumpkin cookies. I stop, frequently to admire the leaves, to touch the bare bark of naked trees. And I want more. More rest, more sweetness, more heaven. I can't get enough. It will never be enough.