People begin to notice, after a while, if they are paying the least bit of attention, that I love the Steelers, that I delight in CS Lewis, that I praise God for Lisa. You might have to be just a smidge more observant to notice that I am a huge fan of Autumn. Like, write odes to it, count down the days to it, giggle over it, lobby others to embrace its pumpkin spice glory. I’d mourn inconsolably each time it came to an end were it not true that I’m also a big fan of winter. But why? What’s the appeal?
First, it’s not summer. Summer is hot and hot is bad. I’ve spent enough time in Florida to have a lifetime worth of hot. Summer also has inordinately long days. Autumn does not. It gets dark when it’s supposed to. Dark and cool is cozy; hot and bright not so much.
Second, Autumn is mostly when the Steelers play. It’s true they also usually play in the Winter, on account of being so great and everything, and usually being in the playoffs. But Autumn is when the season starts. Even if your favorite team isn’t good, you know, like the Steelers are good, Autumn is that part of the season when they still have a chance. For some of you it’s college football, and for others still, high school football. It’s homecoming, festival season, sweaters and hoodies, frost and the sight of our own breath in the morning.
Third, fires, s’mores, hot cider, hearty soups.
Fourth, and likely most importantly, Autumn is the beginning of the end. It is the slowing down that leads to the rest of the Winter, the preparing for a long Winter’s nap. As such it is a yearly reminder of what lies behind and what lies ahead. The falling of the leaves remind us both that death comes to us all, and that leaves are not made to cover our sins. But there is hope in the falling leaves as well. For they are the cover that protects the ground, and as Autumn progresses, they become the food that will feed the Spring. It is the dying that must come before the resurrection, the reminder of all that we have lost.
Nothing communicates this more to me than the smell of Autumn. There is a marriage most strange that is carried by the chilling winds. That smell is the rotting of the leaves, the slow, steady decay that at one and the same time hints at death and speaks of the fecundity to come. Life and death kiss. Raking the leaves gives us our last natural outdoor sweat. Jumping into the pile is one more reminder that we were once young. And burning the leaves turns that smell into incense, an offering of praise to the Lord of the Dance of the Seasons.
A better man would be able to praise every season with the same fullness. He, after all, made them all. But He made me too, and gave me a special love for this season. So this is my homage.