There’s something special in the November air—a quiet magic that feels almost personal. Walking with Milo this morning, it seems as though these small wonders are tucked into the frost, the light, the lingering colours of autumn. Each time I find one, I feel a quiet sense of knowing: a gift from the Father, left here just for me, meant to bring joy.
The air is cool but soft, the sun just starting to rise, casting long, low shadows over the boulevard. Bare trees stretch toward the sky, a few wisps of cloud drifting across the pale blue. Down below, each blade of grass wears a coat of frost, tiny sculptures catching the first light. For a moment, everything glitters; it’s as if each blade was made to hold that light, just so, waiting to be seen.
Leaves pile gently against the hedges, resting in shades of tan and brown, with hints of red and gold, and the faintest touch of green clinging to the season. It feels like autumn’s last gesture, a quiet blending back into the earth—a final gift before winter covers it all.
I glance at Milo, absorbed in his own discoveries, and catch a flicker—a flash, a glimpse of red, as bold as it is unexpected. I turn, and there, nestled among the small, frost-edged leaves, lies a single large red leaf, its edges traced in frost like lace. This leaf, resting alone amidst the pale tan leaves and frosty grass, feels like a gift—another small wonder, left just for me to find.
I know, deep in my heart, that these treasures are placed here for me. The Father sets them where He knows I’ll see them, knowing the joy they’ll bring, the delight they’ll spark. These quiet gifts—a flicker of frost, a glimmer of red, a leaf resting in the light—are reminders of His love, offered in whispers before the season fades.
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