There is a morning each year when you step outside and simply know that autumn has arrived. The air has a new sharpness to it, there is mist lying low over the Stour, and the trees in the churchyard have begun, quite without fuss, to change their colour.
I have always loved this time of year. The summer, with all its busyness, gives way to something slower and gentler. The evenings draw in, the lamps go on a little earlier, and there is a quiet invitation to come indoors, to rest, and to take stock.
Autumn is, of course, a season of harvest. We give thanks for the fields around Shipston and for all those whose work brings food to our tables. But it is also a season of letting go. The trees do not cling to their leaves. They release them, generously, and in doing so they prepare for winter and make room for new growth in the spring.
Perhaps there is something in that for us. Most of us carry things we might do well to set down: old worries, disappointments, the weight of trying to hold everything together. The writer of Ecclesiastes reminds us that "to every thing there is a season", a time for holding on and a time for letting go. Autumn gently suggests that letting go need not be a loss. It can be an act of trust.
As Christians, we believe that nothing offered to God is ever wasted. The fallen leaf feeds the soil. The seed buried in the dark ground waits patiently for its moment. And the things we lay down in prayer are held by the One who makes all things new.
So this autumn, as you kick through the leaves or watch them drift down past the church tower, perhaps take a moment to pause. Give thanks for what has been. Let go of what you no longer need to carry. And trust that, in God's good time, new life will come.
