Red Leaves

“If God’s left something a mystery, we honor him when we talk about it as a mystery.” 

October 2019

I bounded up the stairs, fleeing the main floor of the house where Trevor’s nearly comatose state cast a dark pallor on the energetic but constant needs of my children. The demands of that day, the homeschooling, the panic attacks, the depression, the messy kitchen, the chaos, the fears were all suffocating me. I rushed to my bedroom and my head slumped to the floor as I collapsed to my knees. I uttered a desperate wordless cry, breathing quickly as I finally succumbed to the emotions I had been working tirelessly to suppress. Tears manifested my unspoken prayers in an uncontrolled tidal wave of grief, loss and pain. Eventually, I found the outpour had lessened my weariness enough to begin an intentional effort to slow my sobs and steady my breathing. When I found the courage to open my eyes to the real world, there, on the carpet between my imploring hands was a tiny but brilliantly red leaf, no bigger than a dime. 

It was a familiar signal. God had used a red leaf before to remind me He was near. But this, this was God head to head on the floor with me, holding my hands in his, grieving the terrors of our plight in real time.  He was with me, is with me. That red leaf is proof. 

It is faded now. I keep it under the clear case of my cell phone with several others that have their own profoundly significant stories. I don’t have a theological box for such encounters with red leaves (I’ve had well over forty now!),  but I know they are true. God’s interactions with me are a mystery, a beautiful mystery. That mystery leads me to a place of worship and peace-filled stillness, aware of His constant presence. 

From the very first red leaf, this verse has been tethered to those experiences: “My heart has heard you say, “Come and talk with me.” And my heart responds, “LORD, I am coming.” (Psalm 27:8 NLT)

Do you have any “red leaf” moments?

 Beginning quote from: Reynolds, R. K. (2018). Courage, Dear Heart: Letters to a Weary World. NavPress. 92.