Since this last Chapter 2 segment of Chase is so small, below it I’m also posting another updated seasonal vignette originally published in 2020.

Betty Rawlings looked across her Bible at the two boys devouring her gingersnaps. “It’s good to see that my reading didn’t affect your appetites.” She tousled Forrest’s hair, then smoothed it and did the same for Tom.

“Yes, ma’am,” Forrest replied.

Betty enjoyed the sight of his grin. So often the child flitted about like a somber little ghost, desperately in need of love to make him materialize. “And you, Tom?” she asked her son. “Were you able to hear the story above your own chomping?”

“The story was about a boy who ran away from home with lots of his father’s money, spent it all, then got hungry feeding pigs, so he came home and ate,” Tom recited, biting his cookie.

Betty stifled a sigh. Despite her efforts, Tom always seemed to miss what she tried to teach him. He only got the basic facts. “Did you like the story, Forrest?”

The boy fingered his collar, a habit of his grandfather’s. “Yeah.”

“What part did you like?”

“The pigs!” Both he and Tom roared, sending cookie crumbs all over her floor, try as they did to belatedly cover their mouths.

Betty knew she should have expected the response. Forrest generally went for a laugh before going deeper. “Anything else?”

Forrest set down his cookie. “Where . . . the boy comes home, an’ his daddy’s lookin’ for him, happy to see him.”

Her heart ached for the child, raised by two men who prided themselves on their toughness. It was the cowboy way, she knew, but she dreaded the thought of either Forrest or Tom becoming as hardened as their fathers. Paging through her Bible, Betty found Psalm 23 and read it to her cookie monsters, all the while praying for the Lord to protect and care for them as she could not.

The Valley. As she often did, Betty envisioned the two boys on a dangerous journey, all on their own. She could see them making their way past hulking, craggy mountains, terror on their faces as they wound through the dark valley road they walked. Lord, keep them. Keep them safe through the Valley of the Shadow.

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This Fall-en World

Unlike the breathless wonder spring inspires, at autumn’s first blast I suck in my breath, long for summer and question my ability to cope with the brutal downward spiral toward winter. I venture outside to store up sunshine and acclimate myself as the weather turns. It’s like sticking your toe in a cool lake, feeling the shock and deciding, “This isn’t so bad.” Pretty soon I get used to it. And dive in!

Pungent scents ride the bracing air: tangy, overripe cranberries, rotting fallen leaves, bare dirt from the harvested gardens, smoky fires. I compete with the robbing robins for our grapes and apples, the dainty deer for our spinach and carrots, the ravenous rodents for our squash and tomatoes. As I chop, freeze and cook our produce to preserve it, I gaze out the window and dream of snow.

This far north, autumn doesn’t feel like a season. It’s a segue, a tenser inversion of spring. Instead of expanding heat and light, fall contracts into cold and darkness. I prioritize my summer to-do list leftovers, deleting as the days shorten. I schedule our annual window washing ordeal before the cleaner or cleanees freeze to the exterior glass, pot some of my herbs and gather armfuls of blooms, bringing the outdoors in. I remove screens and shades, turning on humidifiers and heaters. Eying any peeled paint, I ponder my supplies and wonder whether I should take advantage of the transitory temperateness or risk waiting for the hardware store’s final painting sale of the year.

Ditching work, we seize a warm, calm moment and take the boat on one last spin before adding gas stabilizer and leaving it to hibernate in the greenhouse.

It’s glorious to be outside with bare arms and legs on a balmy day after frost has killed or tamed most biting insects. As the weather cools, ticks emerge. Seeking shelter, flies cluster indoors. I swat them daily, sometimes two at once. Beetles and mice attempt the same home upgrade and meet a similar fate.

Fall sports have become a big part of our autumns ever since one evening years ago when our phone rang while we were canning peaches. After the call, my husband announced, “Well, I’m a football coach.”

“When do you start?” I asked.

“Tomorrow morning.”

We never canned peaches together again, but while coaching wasn’t a role my husband sought, it’s something he’s enjoyed the past twenty-eight years. It’s afforded him the ability to know his students in a different setting and way. Since we only had the opportunity to raise girls, it’s provided him with a new crop of sons yearly in addition to his other school “kids.” Now that he’s retired, it’s given him plenty to do during autumn, along with substitute teaching. He runs the clock for home varsity games and listens on the radio to away games. I don’t mind listening or watching either, especially if popcorn, pizza or hot chocolate is involved.

Fall is a season for the senses, but even if I shut my mouth, plug my nose and close my eyes, I know it’s autumn just by the sound of the wind through the dry grasses and rattling leaves. It’s our oldest daughter’s favorite season. She spent her fall break with us, missing one hurricane while she was gone but returning South in time for another.

I could see this one coming from Sunday on. Amid daily media cries that anyone staying would surely die, our daughter’s work didn’t allow her to leave. The Monday night before the hurricane hit, I was especially down, wondering if she’d survive. I’d been praying Daniel 9 for our nation but personalized it into a plea of safety amid the storm.

Just before bed that night, my cousin texted me to rush outside and catch the northern lights. The dynamic display of magnificent red and green reminded me Who controls the heavens. Knowing our daughter loves Him and recollecting the many miracles He’s done to bring her where she was, I recalled Romans 8:28 and entrusted her to the only One who works all things together for good.

Day after day I was also comforted by my chronological reading in the gospels as the Lord Jesus rebukes the wind and surging waves, which stop when He tells them, “Hush! Be still!” I had to tell my heart the same thing many times, realizing that my definition of “good” doesn’t necessarily equal His. As Isaiah 55 says, His ways and thoughts are higher than mine.

In the hurricane’s aftermath, we’re planning on staying with our daughter in her home that still stands until we drive back our car that wasn’t flooded. We rushed it down to her once we heard how she’d tried to hide behind bigger vehicles in an earlier storm during which a fellow driver died.

With yet more storms on the horizon, we may experience a hurricane ourselves while visiting her. When we come home, the green ground could be brown or white. Fall increasingly seems a fleeting season of stunning beauty and death to me, but winter’s blanket, like love, covers a multitude of sins–and even most of my allergens.

Although I generally love autumn, all the temporary trials and blessings of this world remind me that we’re not in heaven yet. Someday, everyone who loves God and is called by His purpose will experience the blessed fulness of His presence. And that won’t last just for a season, but forever.