When the Leaves Let Go
- Debra Flaming
- 5d
- 4 min read
Today felt like the turning of a page.
The wind moved across the farm in slow, steady breaths, tugging at the last of the golden leaves still clinging to the trees. All day long they drifted down—quiet, gentle, almost like a benediction over the fields that worked so hard this year. Every gust sent a fresh flurry spinning to the ground, and with each little shower of color, I could feel it: we’re crossing the line from fall into winter.
But this afternoon, that line between seasons was also a playground.
My granddaughters came over, cheeks pink from the chill, eyes bright with that particular joy children carry so effortlessly. Before long, our carefully raked piles of leaves became mountains to climb, oceans to “swim” in, and clouds to fall into with squeals of laughter. They ran, jumped, and disappeared into the heart of those rustling heaps, resurfacing with leaves in their hair and delight all over their faces.
The same leaves that made the trees look tired and bare looked like pure wonder to them.
I stood there watching—rake in hand, heart full—and thought: this is what grace looks like in late November.
The Beauty of Letting Go
Fall is the season of release.
The trees don’t cling to their leaves. They don’t apologize for the mess or rush the process. They simply let go when it’s time. And in that letting go, the world is painted in amber, rust, and gold. The “end” becomes its own breathtaking kind of beauty.
I don’t always move through change that gracefully.
There are seasons God invites me to loosen my grip—on plans, expectations, timelines, even on how I thought a particular dream would look. And often, I find myself holding on a little too tightly, worried about what “winter” might feel like if I do.
But today, watching my granddaughters throw handfuls of leaves into the air like confetti, I was reminded that the things I fear losing may actually become the ground for joy in someone else’s story. The same changes that feel like an ending to me might look like a playground of possibility to the next generation.
What feels like loss in one season can become a blessing in another.
Sacred Moments in Simple Things
There was nothing fancy about this afternoon—no big plans, no elaborate activities. Just a brisk November day, a yard full of leaves, and little girls who saw treasure where most adults see yard work.
Yet, right there among the leaf piles, I felt the presence of God.
I thought of the verse that says, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” Times to plant and times to harvest. Times to hold and times to let go. Times to run and laugh and roll in the leaves—and times to be still and rest while the fields sleep under winter’s blanket.
Today felt like all of those woven together.
As the girls played, I caught glimpses of the future: these little ones growing up, remembering that Grandma’s farm was a place of joy, warmth, and simple, honest beauty. I hope they’ll remember that the changing seasons were never something to fear—but something to walk through with open hands and grateful hearts.
Because underneath it all, through every change, God is steady. He doesn’t change when the leaves fall or the frost comes. His faithfulness weaves through every season like a quiet, unseen root holding everything together.
From Fall to Winter, from Busy to Rest
All throughout the growing season, our days are full—planting, tending, watering, harvesting. There’s so much movement and noise and color. But as fall gives way to winter, the pace shifts. The fields grow still. The dahlias slumber in their indoor "beds". The trees stand bare against the sky.
The farm, in its own way, exhales.
Maybe the falling leaves are a gentle invitation for us to exhale too—to release what we don’t need to carry into the next season. To trust that even when branches look empty, life is still there, held safely in roots and tucked inside unseen places.
Winter is coming, but it isn’t a punishment. It’s a gift. It’s God’s built-in reminder that rest is holy, that hidden work matters, and that not every season is meant to look full to be full of purpose.
A Gentle Invitation
As I think back on today—the laughter in the leaf piles, the swirl of color, the quiet afterward—I feel the Lord whispering a simple invitation:
Let go.Trust Me with the next season.Find joy in what looks like “in-between.”
Maybe you’re standing in your own November moment, watching something fall away—plans, routines, or chapters of life that once felt so full. If so, I hope you can hear this encouragement:
The God who authored summer’s abundance is the same God who stands with you in autumn’s release and winter’s rest. He wastes nothing—not a season, not a sorrow, not a single falling leaf.
May we learn from the trees, from our children and grandchildren, and from the quiet wisdom of the land:To open our hands.To let go when it’s time.To trust that even in the bare branches, new beginnings are already forming.
From our leaf-strewn farm to wherever you are today, I pray you feel held, hopeful, and gently carried into this next season by the One who never changes.
With love from the farm,
Debra Flaming
