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Autumn Stillness — Lessons from Falling Leaves and Slowing Seasons

Autumn has always felt different to me. The mornings are quieter, the air has that crisp edge, and everything around me seems to be whispering, slow down. The light changes too—it softens, almost as if God Himself is dimming the brightness so we can rest our eyes and our souls. What strikes me most this time of year is the way the trees let go of their leaves. They don’t fight to hold on. They don’t panic about what’s next. They simply release. Every leaf, no matter how bright or how fragile, eventually drifts down in its own timing. And the world doesn’t see it as loss—it sees it as beauty. That picture has been sitting heavy with me lately. Because if I’m honest, I’m not good at letting go. I hold on tight to plans, to fears, to expectations of how I think things should go. Sometimes I even cling to old hurts because, in some strange way, they feel familiar. But the trees remind me that letting go isn’t the end—it’s part of the rhythm God built into life. Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, “...

Strength for the Weary


“Come to me, all you who labor and are heavily burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart; and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."
Matthew 11:28–30 (WEB)


There are some days when even getting out of bed feels like a battle. The weight of anxiety, responsibilities, and fears can sit so heavily on our shoulders that every step feels exhausting. Maybe you know what that’s like — when your mind won’t stop racing, when your heart feels weighed down with worry, when you feel like you are doing everything you can just to hold it together.

I’ve had seasons where I’ve felt bone-deep weary. Times when the pressures of life, the constant cycle of fears about health, the grief of losing loved ones, and even the unseen weight of perfectionism and self-doubt seemed to press in on all sides. There’s something uniquely heavy about carrying burdens that no one else can see — the ones hidden in the mind and heart. You might smile and nod on the outside, but inside you’re tired, longing for rest you can’t seem to find.

It’s into that kind of weariness that Jesus speaks these tender words: “Come to me.”

Notice He doesn’t say, “Fix yourself up first and then come.” He doesn’t say, “Get stronger and then I’ll help.” He simply says, “Come.” Come with your tears, your questions, your heaviness, your weakness. Come as you are.

This is not a distant invitation — it is deeply personal. Jesus looks at you in your weariness and says, “I see you. I know how tired you are. I know the battles you fight that no one else knows about. Come to Me, and I will give you rest.”


Rest for the Soul

When we think of rest, we usually imagine a nap, a vacation, or a quiet moment to ourselves. But the kind of rest Jesus offers goes far deeper. It’s rest for the soul. It’s peace that goes beyond circumstances, beyond whether life is easy or hard, beyond whether fears quiet down or flare up.

Sometimes I’ve caught glimpses of this rest in unexpected places. Like when I slow down enough to notice the beauty of nature — the soft light of evening, the sound of leaves in the wind. Or when I listen to music that lifts my heart and reminds me that I’m not alone. Or when I imagine a place of peace, like the quiet countryside I often dream of, where the noise of life feels far away.

But those moments are only echoes of what Jesus promises. His rest isn’t temporary or easily shaken. It’s steady, lasting, soul-deep.


The Gentle Yoke

Jesus goes on to say, “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart.”

A yoke is a farming tool — a wooden beam that allowed two oxen to share the weight of pulling a load. On our own, the burdens of life are too heavy. But Jesus offers to step in beside us, to carry the weight with us. His yoke is not a crushing one. It’s a gentle invitation to walk with Him, to let Him set the pace, to let Him bear the weight.

Sometimes I forget that. I try to carry everything myself — the worries, the responsibilities, the grief, the “what ifs.” No wonder I get so weary. But Jesus doesn’t ask me to carry life on my own. He asks me to walk with Him. And in walking with Him, I learn His gentleness. I learn His humility. I learn that I don’t have to prove myself, fix everything, or have all the answers.

His yoke is easy, and His burden is light.


Strength in Weakness

If you’re feeling weary today, maybe you need to hear this: It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to not have it all together. It’s okay to admit that you can’t carry everything.

Your weariness is not a sign of failure — it’s a reminder that you’re human, and you were never meant to carry life’s weight alone. Jesus is inviting you to bring your weakness to Him, not hide it. In Him, weakness becomes the very place where His strength shows up.

For me, that often looks like whispering simple prayers when I feel overwhelmed: “Jesus, I can’t do this without You. Help me.” It looks like pausing to breathe and remember His nearness when anxiety tries to take over. It looks like leaning into His promises even when feelings don’t line up.

Little by little, He gives strength for the weary. Not always in dramatic ways, but often in quiet, steady ones — a peace that slips in when I least expect it, a reminder that I’m not alone, a gentle lifting of the weight I thought I had to carry myself.


A Gentle Invitation

If you find yourself weary today, hear Jesus’ invitation again: “Come to me… and I will give you rest.”

He isn’t asking for perfection. He isn’t asking for polished prayers or unshakable faith. He’s simply asking you to come. Come with your fears, your questions, your tears. Come with your weariness. Come as you are.

And when you do, you’ll find what your soul has been longing for — true rest, the kind that only He can give.


Prayer

Lord Jesus, I come to You weary and burdened. You know the heaviness I carry, the fears I can’t seem to shake, the weight that feels too much for me. Thank You for inviting me to come as I am. Teach me to walk with You, to learn Your gentleness, and to rest in Your strength. Carry what I cannot carry. Give rest to my soul. Amen.

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