Indian Summer

October 18

I spent my free time last week ripping out the weedy leftovers of my garden. It was hot work because in Missouri, something called Indian Summer has swept away a brisk September. The afternoons warm to eighty degrees, while the trees blush and give away bouquets of leaves.

It’s an awkward stage, because we’ve already dug out our sweaters and boots. But to wear them now is to sweat and pant.

Still, we wear them, because we know what’s coming. Summer holds tight, but we see something else in the trees— the hint that this can’t last much longer.

I probably laugh too much at girls walking downtown in scarves and boots under what might as well be an August sun. But really? I’m right there, too. I’m not just waiting for autumn; I know it’s partly here, and so I’m dressed for it and standing at the window watching for it— even if summer’s still breathing down my neck.

Indian Summer seems to me a colorful juxtaposition of the things that are and the things that are to take place after this (Rev. 1:19).

What is and what is to come.

And the things that are to come transform the things that are. We dress differently here because of what’s coming. We live and talk and work differently.

And even in this awkward in-between, the breeze carries the scent of a New Creation.

The things that are to come transform the things that are.

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