10.15.2025 | Ordinary Wednesday

Quiet Benediction: Love in the Letting Go
 
“I will cut adrift. I will sit on pavements and drink coffee. I will dream; I will take my mind out of its iron cage and let it swim this fine October.”
—Virginia Woolf
 
The coffee is hot, sweet with cream. I ventured into the Garden this autumn morning to take in its fading beauty. There’s something exquisite in the way flowers surrender to time. In this “Thin Time” of late October and early November, we feel the closing of a season of growth and abundance. The harvest is nearly finished. With the fading light, winter’s cold and darkness begin to stir.
 
The Garden’s slow decay speaks of resilience. It reminds us that decline can reveal inner strength. I’ve grieved the wilting of flowers. The roses are slipping into hibernation, and we remember why we planted them in the first place. We share stories of those who came before us. We remember the good things. We remember the connections that brought joy—and we continue to heal.
 
I’m learning to leave more of the Garden to nature. I no longer tidy it as I once did. I leave it for the small critters to shelter from the brutal cold ahead. And I’ve found beauty in the decay. There’s elegance in the way these once-vibrant plants continue to give back to the earth.
 
Each plant still holds its essence. Its history lingers as the days grow shorter. We watch and wonder. We pray and hope. We hold fast to faith and cling to love.
 
I know I’m in the autumn years myself. Bound by the rhythms of change and time. In this Thin Time, I feel the tug of history—the presence of those who shaped me. The older I get, the more I cling to the stories. Autumn calls us to reflect on who we were and where we’re going. Nothing truly lasts, yet we’re drawn to our shared humanity. We believe that every ending is also a beginning.
 
A bit of faith.
A bit of hope.
A bit of love.
A bit of gardening.
 
“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.”
—Isaiah 40:8