Right about now, I feel like that little horse, shaking my head, asking if there’s been some mistake. Like the few leaves still clinging to the trees around us, it seems that those of us still here this Fall have lost too many friends and kin, young and old, too fast one after the other in these past months. And, when we lift our heads and look around beyond our little group, it can feel like all we see are fallen leaves, branches and entire trees near and far, one falling after the other.
There’s something called compassion fatigue that can drag us down even when we aren’t facing personal loss or trauma. Yet, time after time in these past months at Liberty Vineyard we’ve seen our friends piercing through their own grief to love and guide each other through these woods, and it’s a beautiful thing. We’ve celebrated bittersweet memorial services, welcomed baby Cove, sung Thanksgiving and journey songs (the experience, not the band) to our homebound neighbors, and packed Christmas shoeboxes for children around the world, among other things. In doing this and in our daily prayers and conversations —off and online— we have answered the sermon questions: Are we willing to see as Jesus sees? To care as Jesus cares? To be and become a community of restoration and liberation? A community that prays? One that shares and treasures each person’s story and God’s stories?
We know whose woods we live in, don’t we? And He does indeed see us when we are brought to a full stop, our wet, confused faces looking ’round. He gently lifts each chin, and, in His eyes, we see the smiles of those who have moved on. And, deeper still, we sense a new world where all the trees are evergreens. And, often with mixed emotions, we sing and learn about Christmas carols from fellow travelers throughout the ages.
I hear that pinecones, the lasting emblem of autumn, are sophisticated seed carriers which protect and eventually release the seeds of Christmas trees like pines, spruces, and firs. See, inside the scales of a pinecone are the actual seeds. When the cone dries and opens, the seeds are released, often with little “wings” to help them disperse in the wind. And all those fallen leaves nurture them!
And we too are like those winged seeds, with promises to keep in the months ahead—sharing music and kindness with the staff and residents of Atria and Meadowbrook, cleaning up our rivers and streets, feeding families at Kelsey’s school, welcoming visitors and new babies, supporting missionaries, and serving up both spiritual and physical nourishment on Sundays and online.
I don’t know about the deepest night of the year mentioned in the poem, but the longest night of 2025 is coming soon, on December 21st. And then each day will get longer, and before you know it, we will start seeing those tiny new leaves that herald Spring.
You and I have miles to go before we sleep. It may seem like a long while to be apart from the loved ones who graduated before us, but in what will feel like no time at all (really), we will once again be laughing and embracing our loved ones in eternal Springtime. Hallelujah!
With you on the journey,
Mariana Peralta Dannelley