By: Rev. Stephanie York Arnold
I have never been a lover of fall like so many others. Don’t get me wrong—the colors are beautiful, and I do love a good fire and a bit of pumpkin spice—but the ending of things is just so uncomfortable. I’ve always preferred spring and summer, when life is budding and blooming and the days seem endless.
Nevertheless, these last few years I have found myself being beckoned by the lessons of fall—lessons I wish I didn’t have to endure, yet ones that are nonetheless bringing forth a kind of winter harvest in my life.
Fall is the herald of change. It signals that things will not always be as they currently are. For some, this brings hope and joy. For others, it brings the harsh reality of losing what is.
Last year I learned about abscission. Abscission is a process that begins long before we see the leaves start to fall. It starts as summer wanes—days grow a little shorter, nights a little cooler, and water a little scarcer. Trees experience changes in their hormones, and chlorophyll begins to break down as it is no longer needed in the same way it was in the height of spring and summer. The tree is preparing for something we cannot yet see.
Cells at the abscission point begin to weaken between the stem and the branch. Life-giving water no longer transfers up the trunk and down the limb to the stems as it once did. The leaves dry up, become brittle, and eventually fall—evidence of a transition that had long been underway.
Abscission is the artful and strategic act of shedding leaves in preparation for wintering. It is a process that begins long before we can see it. It is the tree’s way of letting go of what will no longer serve it well in the next season of life.
If we didn’t know any better, we might see this as simply a season of loss. But just as change was taking place long before we noticed it—producing the kaleidoscope of autumn color beneath our feet—so too, during loss, is another mystical revelation unfolding.
At the very moment the leaves are forming that barrier to allow them to fall, buds are developing at the same breaking point. When the leaves finally release, the buds are already present. Once the branches are bare, if you look closely, you’ll see the tiny buds nestled on the tips and tucked into the nooks and crevices.
Katherine May, author of Wintering, writes:
“We rarely notice them because we think we're seeing the skeleton of the tree—a dead thing until the sun returns. But look closely, and every single tree is in bud… The tree is waiting. It has everything ready. Its fallen leaves are mulching the forest floor, and its roots are drawing up the extra winter moisture, providing a firm anchor against seasonal storms. Its ripe cones and nuts are providing essential food in this scarce time for mice and squirrels, and its bark is hosting hibernating insects and providing nourishment for hungry deer. It is far from dead. It is, in fact, the life and soul of the wood. It's just getting on with it quietly… It will not burst into life in the spring. It will simply put on a new coat and face the world again… Life goes on abundantly in winter—changes made here will usher us into future glories.”
While I love the science of this beautiful process, I’ll admit I’m more comfortable reading about it than living it. And yet, I sense it. I see it. I’ve been shedding leaves that once brought shade and lush greenery. It is unsettling to watch parts of yourself dry up and fall away—crunched underfoot by the passing of time. It takes persistent hope to believe that even as something precious and beloved is being lost, something new and life-giving is quietly being formed.
I have left behind the role of being a pastor in the local church, a role I loved and cherished—summering for many years with a congregation that brought me great joy and learning. Now I’ve stepped into a new calling within our denominational institution—one that requires less pastoring and more administrating, more visioning and collaboration across our worldwide connection. As I look around me in this new season, I see abscission everywhere.
For years, something has been happening beneath the surface of The United Methodist Church—a preparation of letting go so that something new might come to bud. It isn’t easy or pain-free. It is filled with letting go and fear, mingled with trust and hope. Yet even as our old leaves dry up and fall beneath us, new buds are forming—buds that hold the potential for life and resurrection. Buds that, I pray, will blossom into bold love, joyful service toward others, and courageous leadership.
This is our perennial rhythm of life, death, and resurrection—a rhythm most beautifully revealed in the person of Jesus Christ yet also woven through the very cells of our bodies, the cycles of creation, and the ebb and flow of all life. We often resist it, just as I resist the coming chill and long for summer’s warmth. Yet it is necessary for our own becoming. Even the seasons we associate only with loss have a way of bringing forth abundance—if we wait expectantly for it.
As May reminds us, “Changes made here usher us into future glories.”
May it be so within us, and may it be so within The United Methodist Church.