As I make my way with the clunky stroller around the farmer’s market, I spot a stack of bright red gala apples. My mind immediately goes to warm pies baking in the oven, the aromas of cinnamon and nutmeg permeating the house, fires burning in the wood stove and candles burning. Fall is just around the corner, and I can taste it, thick in the crisp breeze that blows across my 21 month old’s face and makes him giggle.
Humidity is lifting and in a few weeks, the bright colors of red, orange and yellow will makes their first appearance. The maple across the street will burst to life, and towns across three neighboring states will have their annual autumn festivals, full of apple butters, canned goodness, endless jams and hayrides.
Afternoon comes in the blink of an eye and as I make my way to the bus stop and feel the warm sunlight on my face, I’m reminded of something one of my favorite authors wrote. How each season is a reminder of the birth, death, and resurrection of Christ, and I’m so grateful for the coming display of all of all his glory before what is predicted to be a bitterly cold winter.