Seems a bit of an oxymoron, really. And it is. The fig tree has only a few leaves left. At the same time, it’s still producing new fruit. And our grass, as you can see, is still quite green.
It’s such a weird time of life and death, with citrus and oleander flourishing amongst the gold and red deciduous trees, cactus and palm and bougainvillea unfazed by the “cold,” neighbors raking crisp brown leaves and planting lush winter lawns.
I think about the new life I can barely feel stirring inside me, and the other life that may never stir inside a friend. One healthy, strong child with endless possibilities ahead. One crippled from conception, whose life is likely to end soon, too soon, before it has even really begun.
I think about Christmas. The birth of a Savior, a tiny new life intended for a cruel and painful death from before the world began. A death that means new life for every soul to ever exist.
As I sing “Joy to the world! The Lord is come!” my heart is filled with rejoicing and sorrow and so much love. For the life that was so desperately desired, regardless of potential suffering, because of the potential joy. For the life that will never know joy because the risk–and inconvenience–of suffering is too great. For the life that was sacrificed so that I need not suffer alone, so that I might have joy despite it all.
The line between life and death seems so thin these days, with both too much sunshine and not enough light. Heaven and nature sing. And I cannot help but weep.
Beautiful.