I am by admission not a morning person, but I love sunrises. I have seen a few and found them all beautiful.

A few mornings ago, I was sitting in my customary place on the left side of the loveseat. I was eating my morning snack and drinking the coffee that would refresh me for another day at work. I looked out the living room window at the lilac bush which was being bathed by the first rays of the day’s sunlight. Strangely, it seemed as if in the sunlight that some of the leaves were brown, as if they were dying.

I blinked (after all, I wasn’t yet wearing my glasses) and took a double look. It seemed only the leaves that were illuminated by the sun were so affected—the other leaves were their usual deep green.

It seemed that God himself was speaking to me through those different sets of leaves. There are several messages that went through my mind. One was that in the normal light of day that things seem one way, but are in reality very different. Presently, the lilac bush has reached the peak of summer lushness. The blooms of spring are already gone, and the leaves that remain are darkening daily, patiently waiting the passing of the summer into fall, then winter, when all the leaves will indeed die.

As McDonald Carey used to say at the beginning of the popular soap opera, “So are the Days of Our Lives.” I have definitely passed spring, and as we all do in the spring of our lives, I bloomed. In some ways I did well and pleased my Maker, though in many I failed miserably both Him and my friends and loved ones. Now I have passed the zenith of summer and have entered early fall. The leaves (in my case, hairs of my head) are already beginning to change color. It’s time for me to start preparing for the deep autumn of life as it descends into winter. Hopefully, my autumn and winter will be the most beautiful and productive of all.

A few days later, I received another message. I have waited impatiently all summer for my crepe myrtle bushes to bloom. It seemed everywhere I looked I saw other crepe myrtles blooming brilliant red, pink, even white blossoms, yet nothing in my own yard. Finally last Friday, when I came home from attending a week of conferences in Franklin, I saw to my joy that my myrtles had finally broken forth with their own radiant brilliant red glory! Oh, what a pleasure.

My wife once gave me a credo, and one main from that missive struck me. Paraphrased, it said for me not to compare myself to others, for there are greater and lesser persons than me. If I compare myself to those more highly esteemed I might become bitter; conversely, if I compare myself to those less esteemed I might become vain. Neither bitterness nor vanity is a desirable quality.

And don’t good things come in threes? Yet another message came from the crepe myrtles. As I was leaving for work one morning this week the bright morning sunlight was shining straight through the blooms of one of the crepe myrtles. I could see nothing but the sunlight. It was as if once again not one bloom was there. The message was, “You looked expectantly for Me when I was not yet there, yet now that I am here you are not seeing Me as you are blinded by something else.” Once again, it seemed as if God himself was speaking and saying, “Do you really see Me? Are you so impatient for Me to appear when you want Me that you can’t appreciate or even see Me when I finally arrive? When I do arrive, are you so blinded by other things that you can’t see Me?”

One of the easiest times of the year to see God at work in nature is approaching. Fall in East Tennessee has the most beautiful arrays of color imaginable. Every year I wait anxiously for those beautiful leaves to change colors. I have two special spots where I go to appreciate fall’s beauty.

One is to the Cabbage Cemetery where a lot of my paternal family is buried. I go several times each year so I don’t miss the colors at their peaks. I find it so peaceful to stand there in all that beauty and be reminded that someday my mortal remains will rest there, the body returning to the dust from which it was formed while God remains to speak to future generations through the beauty I now behold.

The other spot is on Old Tazewell Pike on Sunday mornings as I drive to church. As I climb the ridge it seems God speaks through the sunlight filtering through the leaves on the trees as if they were stained glass windows. In spring, the light green leaves say, “Isn’t life refreshing? This is the beginning of yet another day which you have been given. It can be great if you so choose.” In summer, the darker green leaves say, “Ah, how glorious life truly is! Be productive, and enjoy!” In fall, the falling leaves speak again, “Wasn’t summer great? Winter is coming, but it’s not here yet, and these are the most beautiful days of your life. Make them count.” Winter is hardest—the leaves are gone, and it’s as if I’m looking from inside stained glass into the darkest night. Still, there is a message, “You’re enclosed inside a quiet, peaceful dark place to pass this winter, but don’t be afraid—spring is coming again, a glorious spring like you’ve never imagined that will never end.”

My wish and hope for you until we meet in print again, Faithful Reader, is that you find the fullest joy in every season of your life and that we all get to enjoy that final, unending spring together.