- Meditation Among Falling Leaves

HERE IN THE NORTH, the fields are turning brown and the maples blaze red along country lanes and on village lawns everywhere. The air is faintly sweet with the incense of burning leaves as man and nature join together to celebrate the passing of summer and the coming of the “melancholy days” of which the good gray Bryant sang. The sky is a determined blue and the sun shines bravely, though its light is muted by the smoke from a thousand gentle fires fed by curled and faded garlands, which only a few days ago crowned the proud brows of the trees.
We may as well face it—Indian Summer is on us again and there will be frost any night now, or perhaps even the first experimental flakes of snow, deceptive harbingers of the deep and heavy drifts that will surely follow.
It is warm yet and the signs of summer have not all disappeared, but one thing is missing—the sound of bird song lately heard in town and country and sometimes even in the depths of the great cities. The woods are strangely silent now, where a few short weeks ago a thousand bird voices chorused the rising and setting of the sun.
Where are they, those rustic Carusos of the tree and bush, those Asaphs of the field and the hedgerow? Shame to tell, but they have gone from us just when we needed them most. They have fled to the south to escape the first breath of winter. They nested in our trees and fed in our grainfields while the summer was with us, but they forgot so soon, and they left us without so much as a friendly dip of a departing wing. And we are hurt a little, for we loved them well, and in spite of past experiences we trusted them, too. Nothing with so much melody in its throat could be faithless, so we thought, but we were wrong again—they have betrayed our confidence. They are gone, and while we are shivering beneath our turned-up coat collars they will be soaring over meadows alive with warmth and flowers and bright-hued insects.
Well, we can forgive them, for apparently nature made them to inhabit the sunshine; the frost kills their enthusiasm and destroys their song. They are summer friends, and we may as well accept them for what they are. But the flight of the summer birds can point up a moral for us if we are wise enough to see it, and the consideration of the birds might well make some of us uncomfortable. For there are Christians that seem built for the sunshine only. They require a favorable temperature before they can act like Christians—they have never learned to carry their own climate with them. Those who manage to generate an unbelievable amount of enthusiasm while things are going well, disappear at the first sign of trouble. They cannot serve God in the snow—they are strictly summer birds. They desert us at the approach of winter.
There can be no doubt that the cross was heavier for Christ to bear because of His disciples’ actions—”Then everyone deserted him and fled.” Paul knew the sick, sinking feeling that desertion brings when he wrote, “No one came to my support, but everyone deserted me. May it not be held against them.” Every true Christian, before he has lived long, will have occasion to understand in bitter experience these words of the apostle. Far too many religious persons are summer friends.
Now, what shall we do about these fickle friends? Pray for them and leave them with the Savior who died for them. He knows better than we do and to Him they will give account in the end. We dare not let them affect our spirits. We only note the fact of their existence and then pull on our overshoes and prepare to serve God in rough weather. When the spring comes, we’ll be glad, but we refuse to run to escape the winter storms. We must be about our Father’s business. He’ll take care of the weather.