What the Leaf Tells Me

I am going out today, and I am going to find a leaf.

Just one leaf, on its own.



And it may not be the most beautiful leaf out there, though fall is in full swing and the trees are on fire. It may not be the biggest oak tree leaf or the most classically Canadian maple leaf or the most perfectly tear-dropped specimen of elm, but it will be whole. It will be whole, and mostly unblemished, and I am going to pick it up and take it.

I am going to take this leaf and put it on my bedside table. I will make a little bit of effort to clear a space, shifting the tubes of lip balm and the pile of books and the dusty glass of dusty water. I'll disrupt the alarm clock, the snooze button on which is optimally situated to be exactly one arm's length away from the bed. I'll move that and regret it later, and I don't care.

I don't care because this week-- a week in which I'm trying to squeeze blood from a turnip, fetch water from a stone, and catch lightning in a bottle-- this leaf will be real. This leaf will be possible. This leaf will be mine, as I am God's, indeed even as the leaf is God's, and the turnip, and the stone, and the lightning and the wishes too numerous for any dandelion I've ever found.

When I touch that leaf, I will think about Philippians 4:4-9. I will remember to rejoice. I will remember the Lord is near, and not to worry, and know that while God's peace may not be comfortable, it keeps me safe.

And I will hold the whole wondrous thing and turn it over and over and know that if anything in this world is true, honorable, just, pure, pleasing, commendable, excellent or worthy of praise, the leaf is proof of most of that just by itself.

There, in my hands.

And my hands in God's.

Keep on doing the thing that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.-- Phil. 4:9