a beautiful death
It was a Saturday in September, and I was flicking my thumb through the Instagram feed, picture after picture, like I often do on a good and comfy weekend afternoon. As I flicked, one particular picture caught my eye, and gave me pause. I read the text below the photo, and my heart sank.
What I read was about a sister in Christ going through a valley. We all feel it, don’t we? The way life ebbs and flows in little peaks and valleys. Every once in a while, we hit a glorious mountain top. And other times, we find ourselves in a valley below a valley…a trench, you could say. And this particular sister was at the point of climbing out, but the more I read, the more clear it became that she had fought her way through a season of deep trenches. And my heart felt for her.
She is a woman who I knew of in college, a friend-of-a-friend. I can remember scrolling through her feed years ago, seeing how full of life she was. How beautifully she had crafted everything around her with purpose, skill, and care — her home, her hobbies, her family; they were all gorgeous. It wasn’t the type of contrived image of someone’s world that you feel is born out of careful and meticulous editing of details and facts to make a beautiful picture, held together by tape and luck. No, the picture of her world was truly and effortlessly beautiful, and I loved watching it unfold.
She had slipped my mind for a few years, and somehow I had rediscovered her Instagram account by chance, only to find her memoir of the valley that made my heart ache. She had been hurt at a time when she was most vulnerable, and the more I imagined the type of betrayal she’d endured, the more angry I felt at anyone who could put a beautiful and kind woman through that pain. What if that were me; what would I do? I indulged in a little introspection, and what I found within myself was not beautiful at all. As I imagined myself in her shoes, I imagined anger, isolation, fear, walls built up all around me so that no one could come close. It’s just human nature.
But as I moved past her post and looked at what she’d been up to since I’d peeked in on her life last, what I saw was actually quite beautiful indeed. It was clear that things had changed for her, and she’d been forced to adjust to a new norm that wasn’t easy, or comfortable, or always warm and fuzzy. But somehow, she’d managed to do it with such grace, bravery, and power.
If I had asked her how she felt during that valley, I’m sure she wouldn’t have chosen any of those words. When we’re deep in our own trench, it’s easy to beat ourselves up in the process, doubting our own abilities and criticizing each decision and outcome. But from an outside perspective, looking in from above, it was so easy for me to see how she’d woven the tapestry of her life with beauty in every thread. It was so quickly recognizable; that same beauty I’d seen before was still very much present, but it was stronger, somehow. And I couldn’t help but reach out to her and tell her so.
What could I possibly offer a woman who’s been through so much? What do I have to give? In the end, I decided that the best thing I could offer was a kind word, and a simple gift — a little piece of lettering love that I’d make especially for her. I wanted what I wrote to be simple but powerful. Something she might be able to hang in her home, and see each day; something that could bring her peace and courage to go at it, again and again. I pondered and pondered, and eventually, I chose to draw my inspiration from what I was bearing witness to all around me— the fall.
For most folks, fall is a much-anticipated season. Maybe my view of things is biased, I don’t know. But my heart completely beats for autumn. I wait for it all, year, long. And when it finally arrives, I simply can’t get enough. It always seems like it’s here and gone far too fast. The scent of a bonfire floating on chilly breezes, the shorter days and cozy nights, wrapping up in your favorite blanket with a steamy cup of mapely-caramely-pumpkiny-spicy something…it’s just the best. But the best part of all the wonderful parts, if you talk to any autumnophile, are the leaves.
Swirling, tumbling, golden, crispy, crimson red and burning orange — this is the part of the fall that we really live for. As the poet John Howard Bryant said, it is “the year’s last, loveliest smile.” It’s as if all the world blushes forth in this final attempt to stun and enthrall us before winter robs her of her beautiful robe. It’s mysterious, majestic, glorious, breath-taking, profoundly beautiful.
But what is the changing of the leaves, after all? It is death. It is slow, agonizing death. The leaves are, day by day, starved of their life-blood, the sun. Each day grows a little cooler, a little shorter, offering a little less life-giving light, until eventually the chlorophyll disappears, and ultimately the leaves fall to the ground, finished forever. A little morbid when we think of it that way, no? So after all the pomp and circumstance and expectation, this long-awaited autumnal blush just turns out to be nothing more than one giant, collective funeral. What a let-down.
Or is it?
The words I eventually crafted to create my lettering project were these: “Autumn — her beauty is in the slow, gentle surrender of what is past; anticipating the rebirth that will come in perfect time.” I sketched them out and laid them over a magical little snapshot I took of the woods at my parent’s house. As I sat and pondered this woman’s circumstances, and her journey, and what it had all come to mean for her, I realized that she and the fall were so very alike. They’d both been bee-bopping along, bubbly and beautiful, minding their own business, when all of a sudden, forces outside of their control had begun to shift and move, and started changing their world. They were faced with a choice. They could crumble under the pressure of inexplicable difficulty, or they could make something beautiful out of the chaos. And I truly believe that they both chose the latter.
I wanted her to read these words, and realize that she was on the same journey as these gorgeous trees just outside her window — she was waking up each day, choosing to surrender with grace that which had passed, that which she could not control or change, all the while anticipating the glorious and gorgeous reworking of her life that had already begun, and was only bound to become more beautiful with time. Because after the beautiful death of what is laid to rest, there is much joy to be found in the fresh blossom of spring. We wait for it. It sometimes comes after a long and unforgiving winter. But it always arrives, and it’s always right on time. And I wanted her to know that just like we can trust the flush of springtime vitality, she can trust her heavenly Father to bring the same freshness and newness into her life when the timing is just perfect.
I choose to share this with you because I think maybe some of us are going through our own beautiful death. Maybe you’re trying to lay something painful to rest in your life, and it’s difficult. Maybe you’re putting to death a difficult circumstance, or a loss; maybe you’re surrendering, as my friend said, “what you thought would be.” You’re having a difficult time doing it with the grace and strength you so desperately wish you could muster. It is hard. Sometimes, the season doesn’t want to end without a fight. But I just wanted to create a gentle reminder for you that the death of one season is sometimes necessary for the birth of the next. And I want you to find courage in knowing that you can surrender whatever has been weighing you down or holding you back, and it can indeed be done beautifully. We can always weep over what is lost and done, but we can dry our tears knowing that what is coming just over the horizon will be fresh and full of new mercies. Christ does not promise us the smooth road or the easy road, but He does promise that our road does not have to be walked alone. And perhaps in that, there is grace enough for a joyful heart in the journey that will slowly lead us to spring.
Until next time,
Mrs. P
