“I have a word for you,” my sister said. We carry the DNA of our vocabulary-loving father, who enjoyed puzzling us with unusual words as we gathered around the dinner table growing up. His influence was strong.

The word she shared was “marcescence”, and it describes a tree’s leaves that cling to the branches, dead, long after all others have let go and floated to the ground. For reasons not thoroughly understood, these shriveled, ugly leaves remain, clinging in defiance of the changing season, clutching futilely to the remnants of the life they had before.

They remind me of older men that I knew in past churches, crossing arms in defiance against guitars, against sandals, against the vibrancy of youthful praise encroaching on their territory of “how it’s always been done”.

They remind me of the women I see with artificial lips and hair, desperately clinging to the memory of a youth long since gone, fearful of embracing the beauty that comes with a graceful surrender to time.

Those shriveled leaves clutch tightly to past glories, refusing to accept that it is time to step aside, make room for new growth and life in the places they formerly stewarded. But inevitably the new growth comes anyway, pulsing, pushing through branch and stem, forcing the dead to finally drop unceremoniously to the muddy ground. They could have floated down earlier, a dance of vibrant color decorating the forest floor, giving themselves over to nurture new growth. But now they are forced out into a cold wind, devoid of beauty and life, crumpled uselessly against wall and fence, clogging gutter and drain.

I see them cluttering my yard, after the swirling symphony of fall color, after winter’s glistening gift of white. They hang, lonely. Fall, unnoticed. A lesson and a reminder.

What am I clinging to instead of surrendering? A position? A reputation? Am I no longer teachable, insisting on my opinion, my way? Who am I holding back instead of nurturing their growth? My church? My child?

I’ve known many who embraced their life’s seasons, living with purpose and joy in each one. Men who embraced servanthood in their leadership. Women who mentored and encouraged and served those coming after them. I want to be that kind of person, instead of the other. One who welcomes the future with hope instead of staying fearfully fixated on the past. I’m sure you do, too.

“I have a word for you”, my sister said. And she did, indeed.

Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

Isaiah 43:18-19