What the Aspens Whispered

One beautiful autumn afternoon, I took a drive to see the Colorado aspens in all their glory.







I found my favorite trail and walked across this rustic bridge . . .

. . . exulted in the invitation of this leaf-strewn path . . .

. . . and chuckled at the wording of this sign . . .

(who tries to smell fungus?).







Then I approached this huge rock . . .

. . . and soon left the little nature trail to explore beyond it. 

And that's where God met me, in the secret place, and whispered to me through one small aspen leaf.

Why this one? After all, I'd seen many gorgeous aspen leaves . . .

. . . including these rare orange and red ones!














I'd seen golden aspens softly touched by warm sunlight . . .

. . . and others kissed by jeweled raindrops . . .

But until that moment, as I beheld this single aspen leaf caught among the needles of an evergreen, I hadn't realized the key to the aspen's beauty.

What about that one leaf is different from these others?

The leaves above are still clinging to the tree, to their comfort zone, to security. Some of them are still cloaked in the vibrant green of summer, dancing in the breeze, defying the looming certainty of an approaching fall. Others have begun to change, to prepare for the new season.

And still others have completely abandoned themselves to the arrival of autumn, embracing it and allowing themselves to be dressed in the colors of a new season.

Which leaves do you relate to? Do you embrace change, or shrink from it?

As a person who loves peace and tranquility, I definitely tend to deny changes of season until I must accept them. I cling to the familiar, the place I've grown accustomed to, the area in which I feel I can succeed (or at least not fail).

When winds of change blow, I shiver in the breeze and let go only when forced.

I don't want to surrender, to release my tight hold, to detach from the "tree" and fall down . . . to . . . what? To rest uncomfortably among the needles of a different tree, where I clearly don't belong?

Ah, but look at how beautiful this leaf is, out of its comfort zone, nestled among that which is different from itself, situated where the Light can shine through. And how did it get there? Surrender.

Perhaps when we let go of our control--or we're forced to leave behind all things comfortable and familiar--perhaps that is when God's glory can most beautifully be displayed through us. Perhaps falling . . . and landing at the lowest point . . . can be beautiful.

But surrender is never easy. When I was single, I struggled to be content with my singleness. Sure, I had many grand adventures and good friends, but I longed for a husband and family of my own.

Now, though a happily married woman, I struggle with other things. No longer can I make decisions about how I spend "my" time or money, without taking my spouse into consideration. Surrender is a daily requirement. Worth it, certainly, but not easy.

Yet I find that the hardest thing to surrender hasn't changed. Whether single or married, the hardest thing for me to surrender has been control. I couldn't control my future as a single person, and I can't control it now. I have an idea of what the next year holds, but anything could happen. How can I possibly relax in the face of all the unknowns?

Surrender. And perhaps even greater than surrender: Trust. When the aspen leaf "lets go" of the branch, it's an unconscious act of trust. Trust that although the weather has turned cold and blustery, that although sap no longer flows merrily to feed it, that although it must fall to the ground and die . . . this is not the end of the story.

In fact, do you know why an autumn leaf falls to the ground? As this article describes why leaves fall, "The process that starts the cascade of events . . . is actually a growth process." The next year's buds have formed, and the tree must build up carbohydrates for new growth in springtime. So last year's leaves gracefully give way to new life. And those baby buds cannot open until they've gone through the bleakness and cold of winter.

That must be why God whispered to me through one shining aspen leaf, "Surrender is beautiful." He ushered me into a season of letting go, of falling and dying to my hopes, of struggling to trust that it wasn't the end.

And it wasn't! With spring came the budding of new leaves, new hopes, new relationships. Most of all, the process of dying led me to this wonderful truth: God doesn't love us because we always trust Him, always love Him, always do our best for Him. He loves us even at our lowest point, when we question His goodness or fear that we have utterly disappointed Him. His love for us does not grow or diminish based on our performance or lack thereof. He simply loves us . . . because we're His!

And that truth is what makes it possible to face the unknowns and surrender, like the aspen . . . to trust that God has a plan . . . and that spring will come again!