Writings of a Beholder 🌿 11.3.23
Let this emptiness be an offering
Let This Emptiness Be an Offering
I’ve been paying close attention to the trees lately.
Before we left for our trip to the UK, the leaves hadn’t yet fully turned, most of them still green and holding onto their fullness. It was such a joy to return home to find that nearly all of them had found their fall colors, the neighborhood alight with brilliant shades of crimson, orange, and gold.
For a week at least their colors have held. Now, I look out the window today and drive past the trees in the neighborhood and it seems the autumn winds have taken most of their leaves, those dazzling colors now littering the ground like some strange kind of fall glitter.
I see now more bare branches with a few leaves hanging about, not yet ready to let go. But I suspect that they won’t stay like that for long.
As I’ve been noticing the changes in the trees, I’ve been thinking about how autumn is the season when things begin to slowly die. And yet it’s ironic that most of us would agree it’s one of the most beautiful seasons. Autumn is the liminal space, the transitional time, between the vibrancy of summer and the barrenness of winter.
The tree in our front yard has more bare branches than full ones and I can’t help but notice the way I seem to mirror it. I can feel the seasons shifting each time I go outside and have to add another layer of clothing for warmth. The wind has grown cold, the days slowly becoming shorter, the darkness reaching further than the light this time of year.
And me, well, I can feel the season shifting in my soul, too.
2023 has been a year of pruning, letting go, and letting old things die, while letting the Light touch and heal those hurting pieces of me. Now that I’ve reached the end of the year, the dust has settled and I can see through the fog my own bareness. I can see the way some of my branches hang stripped and empty and I feel the cold of winter settling in around me.
I used to dread winter as a child because I knew it meant the absence of warm weather, longer days, and prolonged exposure to sunshine. But as an adult, I’ve come to appreciate winter and the way it invites us to turn inward.
The way it strips and leaves you bare, exposed, and vulnerable to the elements isn’t necessarily a bad thing I’ve come to realize. It’s uncomfortable, most definitely. But given time, winter reveals what lies underneath all of the greenery, allowing what’s usually covered to let loose and breathe.
Winter clarifies, purifies, and provides us with a space to catch our breath from summer’s hurried pace. Because even trees know that letting their roots rest under a cover of darkness makes the colors of spring that much more vibrant.
All of us need time to hibernate. To let our bare branches hang bare without shame. To practice living into the truth that we are enough and loved no matter what, even when we don’t have anything to offer.
The trees stand green all through spring and summer, providing shade. Then they turn toward autumn’s colors and receive our wonder.
But in winter, they stand bare with nothing to offer and some might argue it makes them less beautiful, but I think it makes them honest. In winter, they show us what they are, at the very core, and they don’t feel an ounce of guilt for letting themselves just be.
I want to mimic the trees.
This winter, I don’t want to fight the weariness but rather let it lead me to something deeper.
I won’t rage against the cold or kick against the darkness but instead look for the Light and draw near to the warmth of Jesus’ presence.
I won’t shame my own vulnerability but rather let this frailty be an offering — this emptiness an opportunity to believe that I am more than what I can or cannot offer. That I am loved and enough because of Him Who made me.
One of my favorite quotes about winter seasons comes from Katherine May’s beautifully honest book, Wintering. She writes,
“We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again.”
Winter doesn’t have to be a bad, scary thing. It can be the season where we are stripped of everything that gets in the way of who we were created to be.
It can be a season where we let our bare branches lead us to more of Jesus.
So as we lean into these first few November days, may we not curse the approaching cold and dark.
May we let what needs to rest fall from us, trusting that in time, good things will grow again.
With you on the journey,
Celia
Life Lately
A Breath Prayer for Your Weekend
Inhale: By means of Your Light.
Exhale: May we see Light.
(adapted from Psalm 36:9)
*If you’d like to learn more about the practice of breath prayer, download this complete digital guide to practicing breath prayer.
Resources & Good Things to Pick Up
My Etsy shop, The Beholding Co., is officially up and running again! Purchase some breath prayer cards, a Lectio Divina bookmark, and more!
Grab a copy of my Bible study, You Are Beloved: a 21-day study on how to root your identity in the love of God, over on Amazon. If you’d like a free 3-day sample of the study, reply to this email and I’ll send it right over!
My friend and licensed spiritual director, Kari Bartkus, offers an 8-week journaling program for those who want to process their grief and trauma with God within the safety of blank journal pages. I’ve completed the program myself and can say confidently that it was incredibly impactful and healing: Journal Gently
An Invitation to Pause & Reflect
A regular practice of reflection helps us recognize what’s going on beneath the surface of our souls so we can name it in the Lord’s presence. Because as we learn to name what we feel, what we need, and what we long for, we’re also learning to discern the Spirit’s sweet, gentle voice within our hearts and lives.
Take a few moments today or this weekend to journal or contemplate with the Holy Spirit the following question(s) or prompt(s):
What in your life do you feel invited to let rest? What might you need to let go of in this season?
As the days grow shorter, where are you noticing Light leaking in?
