The Ache of Autumn

The following is a guest post written by my daughter, Christine Eaton.

“I feel a loneliness for my Creator that pulls me like a migratory bird in the Fall.” -Rebecca Reynolds

If fall were a person, she’d be an introverted poet and artist. She steps out of summer shyly, never quite sure if the world is ready for her yet. As she paints the leaves red and strips down the trees, and as the carved jack o’ lantern sitting out on the neighbor’s front porch grows mold and curls in on itself, she reminds us that there is death, but for those who know, there is more than that.

Through the moments she creates, the cuddling with a lover under a blanket, the communion with family over meals, and the satisfaction of sitting alone with a book while the room fills with the aroma of freshly baked pumpkin bread, she awakens a nostalgia we have kept in the most reserved parts of ourselves. We feel separated from something we have not yet fully known. But we know that separation is due to the death that fall keeps revealing to us. As she touches us in this way, we ache. We feel that our deepest desires lie in a longing for something more; an intimacy that nothing in the world can ever satisfy.

Well-made poetry and art, the kind we must sit back and call beautiful or sublime, is able to show us in small glimpses this idea of light and this glorious intimacy for which we are longing. Fall’s work is just that, for while she shows us death, she also shows us this light (like any good poet). Since the medium fall paints and writes with is the form of nature, we can be assured that while she is groaning, with an anguish like our own, under the weight of death, she is pointing us to her Creator.

For the ones who know her Creator, let fall remind you through that ache you feel in your bones, that we are made for something more. We long for that deep communion and intimacy with Him. We are made for heaven, and let us be assured that one day, we will stand as a bride and that ache will be replaced with glory, death will be undone, and everything sad will come untrue.

-Christine Eaton