Leaves

I served eleven years on Crossroads staff. Eleven years of early mornings, late nights, storms weathered, and prayers whispered between tasks. Eleven years of carrying water jugs, fixing leaks, sweeping cabins, and learning that sometimes ministry doesn’t look like preaching. It looks like quiet work. It looks like showing up. It looks like love disguised as labor.

Yesterday was the 40th anniversary of Crossroads. Forty years of ministry, summer camp, and community. Forty years of stories written on this soil. It was also my last day of work.

This morning I stood on the porch one last time. The air was thick and cool, clouds gathering and parting like the sky couldn’t decide what it wanted to feel. I drove up to Hunt, filled my bottles for the last time, and cried because how do you not, when you’re saying goodbye to something that has shaped you down to your bones.

The leaves were turning, the wind carrying them down the mountain like tiny farewells. It felt right that I was leaving with them, part of the same rhythm of endings, of change, of release. The mountain will go on breathing without me. That truth stings, but it’s holy too.

This mountain has held so many versions of me.
The girl who wanted to belong.
The young adult who learned to lead.
The broken one who found healing in the work.
The quiet one who met God not in sermons, but in silence.

I’ve said goodbye to people, to summers, to versions of myself. But this goodbye feels different. Final, in a soft and sacred way. Like setting something down without resentment, only gratitude.

At our final staff meeting, Kenneth asked, “How do you create space to cultivate God?”

The question has stayed with me. For me, it’s about learning to notice. Not just carving out time, but softening my heart enough to see Him in the small things. In a shared meal. A kind word. A quiet walk back from dinner. It’s not loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s just sitting with my coffee and not reaching for my phone. Letting silence stretch longer than feels comfortable. Being honest in prayer, even when all I can manage is a sigh.

And then there’s little lion, Kenneth’s two-year-old son, running across the property with that wild curiosity only toddlers have. Watching him see the world like it’s brand new has been one of the most grounding parts of this season. He’ll stop and study a leaf, or point to the sky just to say “moon.” He laughs at gravel crunching under his shoes, at the wind in his hair, at the smallest moments of wonder. He notices everything. He reminds me that awe isn’t something you grow out of. It’s something you grow back into.

Maybe that’s what this whole chapter has been about. Learning to notice. To see God not only in the big moments, but in the ordinary ones too. In the work. In the laughter. In the stillness.

As I stood there today, looking out over the valley, I thought about how much of my life is woven into this soil. How many prayers I’ve whispered here. How much love this place has carried for me and through me. Crossroads will always be my holy ground.

And as I go, I know I’m not really leaving.
The dust of this mountain is still on my shoes.
Its river still runs through my prayers.
And its stars,
its stars will always take note.

It’s a lazy Sunday. One of those early September days when the sun moves slowly and the sky hasn’t quite decided whether it’s done with summer yet. I was doing the usual, taking out the trash, scrubbing out corners of the house that are ignored on busy days, and trying to clean the week off my hands so I could step into the next one a little lighter. The kind of cleaning that isn’t just about wiping surfaces but about finding control in the little things. Breathing room. A fresh start.

Once the house was reset, I grabbed my empty Yeti bottles and made my way to Hunt Hall. Everyone knows that Hunt has the best water. We’re on a well system out here, so the water isn’t processed or filtered down to nothing, it’s cold, crisp, and tastes like it came straight from the heart of the mountain. And somehow, the sink at Hunt always hits better than the rest. Maybe it’s superstition. Maybe it’s just the way comfort attaches itself to places we return to often.

And that’s when I saw it.

The tree outside Hunt Hall. Tall and quiet and waiting, like it has been all summer. But today, the sun caught the very top of it, just right. And in that light, I noticed it: the first blush of autumn. Just the top leaves. Just a few. Stained in red and orange like someone had taken a match to the edge of summer.

It stopped me.

It shouldn’t have. I’ve lived through enough Septembers to know the signs. The crispness in the mornings, the way the light hits differently, the first leaf that crunches underfoot when you weren’t even looking for it. But there was something about seeing it here, outside Hunt, in the middle of a chore I’d done a hundred times, that made me still.

Maybe it was the contrast. The way the top leaves flared with color while the rest of the tree held onto green. Like it wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like it was trying to hold both seasons in its branches for just a little longer. And maybe I understood that more than I wanted to.

There’s a lot we carry into fall. The weight of what we didn’t say over the summer. The tiredness that lingers even after we sleep. The goodbyes we didn’t mean to say but ended up whispering anyway. And still, we move forward. Still, the days get shorter. Still, the leaves change whether we’re ready or not.

But this tree, catching the light, reminded me that change doesn’t always arrive all at once. Sometimes it begins at the edges. Quietly. Slowly. With just a few leaves turning red while the rest of you tries to stay the same.

I think that’s how I feel right now.

I’m not fully in fall yet. Not ready for the rush of endings or the turning of pages. But I’m starting to feel it. The shift. The Knowing. That something is coming, and I won’t be the same once it’s here.

So I stood there, for a moment, water bottles forgotten in my arms, and let myself just be. With the tree. With the change. With the soft, burning light of a lazy Sunday.

And maybe that’s enough.
To notice.
To pause.
To begin to let go.

Even if it’s just one leaf at a time.

The Stars Take Note

Holy Ground

Edges of Autumn