When the Leaves Fall

Luke 13:6–9 — “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came seeking fruit on it and found none. Then he said to the vinedresser, ‘Cut it down; why should it use up the ground?’ But the vinedresser answered, ‘Sir, let it alone this year also, until I dig around it and fertilize it.’”

The vineyard was quiet, the branches bare. Year after year, the owner came looking for fruit—and found none. His patience had worn thin. But before the axe could swing, the gardener stepped forward.
“Give it one more year,” he said. “Let me tend the soil. Let me care for it again.”

That’s the voice of Jesus—the Master Gardener who sees worth where others see waste.
He’s not quick to discard or condemn. When our lives look barren, when nothing seems to grow, He kneels beside the roots and begins to work the soil of our hearts again.

John 15:4–5 — “Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in Me. I am the vine; you are the branches.”

Here in Ohio, the trees stand nearly bare. The glory of October has fallen to the ground, and the cold November wind whistles through empty limbs. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the trees were dead. But they’re not. Deep below, life still pulses. The roots are storing energy, preparing for spring.

It’s the same with us.
There are seasons when God allows the leaves to fall—when the beauty we once carried fades, when work slows, relationships shift, or our sense of purpose dims. Pruning often feels like loss, disappointment, or confusion. We stand in a cold wind, wondering what we did wrong.

But maybe it’s not punishment.
Maybe it’s preparation.
Maybe the Gardener is tending deeper roots.

We like to show green leaves and bright fruit—to prove we’re thriving. But Jesus doesn’t ask us to perform. He asks us to abide. To stay. To trust that His hands are still holding us, even when nothing seems alive.

What does abiding look like in winter?
It looks like opening Scripture when feelings are flat. Whispering a simple prayer when words are few. Choosing small obediences when doors stay shut. Receiving love you can’t yet feel. Remaining near, not running away.

The seasons of the soul are not mistakes. They’re mercy. God’s pruning is never cruel—it’s careful. He removes what hinders life so that new life can grow. And fruit is promised in its season: “He is like a tree planted by streams of water… that yields its fruit in its season” (Psalm 1:3).

So if your branches feel bare, don’t fear the silence. The same God who painted the leaves in October will clothe the trees again in spring. As Thanksgiving approaches, choose gratitude not only for what God has given, but for what He is quietly preparing.

🌿 Reflect & Rest

What if this season of loss is really a season of rooting?
What if God’s silence is the sound of Him working deeper?
Can you trust the Gardener even when you see no green?

Maybe this is your “one more year”—the time He’s digging around your roots, quietly preparing you for fruit you can’t yet imagine.

📍 Prayer:
Lord, when the winds strip my branches bare, remind me that You are still my life. Teach me to rest, to abide, and to trust the seasons You bring. And when new leaves appear, may they bring glory to You alone. Amen.

Glorified Either Way

We pray for healing. We pray for help.
But what if the greater miracle is learning to glorify God even when nothing changes?

Philippians 1:20 — “That Christ will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by death.”

We’ve all heard the prayer list.
One by one, hands are raised — “Pray for my surgery,” “Pray for my finances,” “Pray for my family.”
It’s not wrong to ask. Jesus told us to bring our needs before the Father.
But somewhere along the way, our prayers began to sound more like instructions:
“Lord, guide the doctor’s hands.”
“Remove the cancer.”
“Provide the money we need.”
We tell Him what to do and how to do it.

Yet when Jesus taught His followers to pray, He didn’t say, “Give me what I want.”
He said, “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.”
What if that simple phrase was meant to reshape every prayer we’ve ever prayed?

So maybe the question isn’t should we pray for healing or help.
Maybe the question is why we pray for them.
Are we seeking His hand, or His face?
One gives us relief. The other gives us life.

🕯️ When Prayer Doesn’t Change the Pain

Job lost everything — his wealth, his health, his family — yet whispered through the dust,
“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Jesus prayed in Gethsemane until His sweat became blood.
“Father, if You are willing, take this cup from Me; yet not My will, but Yours be done.”

Paul pleaded three times for his thorn to be removed, and God replied,
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.”

Three prayers. Three denials. One truth:
God’s glory often shines brightest when our desires are not met.
Faith isn’t proven in what we receive, but in whom we trust when nothing changes.

💧 Hungry for the Wrong Thing

When the Israelites wandered in the wilderness, they cried out for food and water.
They had seen miracles, stood beneath Sinai’s thunder, and still they cried, “We’re hungry! We’re thirsty!”
God answered, but He also grieved.

Because what they truly needed wasn’t bread or water.
They needed Him.

Moses later reminded them, “Man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”

They were surrounded by the presence of the Living God, yet their prayers stayed fixed on their bellies.
They wanted answers. He wanted intimacy.

How often do our prayers sound like theirs?
“Lord, fix this. Provide that. Make this easier.”
We ask for the gift and miss the Giver.
We reach for the water and forget the One who said,
“Whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst.”
And the One who said, “I am the bread of life.”

Could it be that our deepest hunger is not for relief, but for relationship?
Every ache is an invitation to look up — not for rescue, but for revelation.

🧭 Faith That Trembles and Still Trusts

Sometimes prayer feels like standing in the dark, whispering into silence.
You’ve begged. You’ve believed. You’ve done everything right.
But heaven stays quiet, and the pain doesn’t lift.

If you’ve ever been there — waiting for healing that never comes, or watching someone you love slip away — you know how hard this is.
This kind of faith isn’t tidy or triumphant.
It trembles, it questions, it weeps — and still says, “Even if You don’t, I will trust You.”

Jesus never promised us comfort.
He promised us Himself.
And sometimes that means walking with Him through valleys we would never choose.

Maybe faith doesn’t erase pain; maybe it helps us see it differently.
It doesn’t demand understanding; it discovers glory.
We follow Him, not because He fixes every problem, but because He alone is worth following.

🤍 The Prayer of the Broken Saint

I know many of you are on your knees right now, crying out to God.
You’ve stared at the empty chair across the dinner table.
You’ve walked through a silent house where laughter used to live.
You’ve prayed until your throat ached.

There are moments when words run out — when you can’t keep asking for healing or help because the pain has taken all your strength.
And in that place, all that’s left is this:

“Lord, regardless of the outcome, glorify Your name.”

That’s the prayer of the broken saint.
That’s the prayer of Jesus in Gethsemane and the cry of Job in the ashes.
It’s not a prayer for deliverance — it’s a surrender to glory.
It’s not polished. It’s not eloquent. It’s just real.

Sometimes all we can do is lift our tear-stained faces toward heaven and whisper,
“I can’t carry this. I don’t understand it. But let it glorify You.”

And that’s enough.
Because that is faith — not the kind that moves mountains, but the kind that kneels in the rubble and still calls Him good.
Heaven hears that prayer more clearly than any sermon ever preached.

🙏 The Surrender He Invites Us Into

Our purpose is not to be comfortable — it’s to be conformed to Christ.
Our calling is not to have our problems fixed, but to have His presence formed within us.
Our highest aim is not success or safety, but this:
“Whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”
“Everyone who is called by My name, whom I created for My glory.”

So here is my prayer:
No matter my circumstances, may my life, my health, my marriage, my finances — all of it — glorify You.
If You allow me to be sick, let my sickness glorify You.
If You allow me to live in poverty, let my poverty glorify You.
If You allow me to struggle, let my struggle glorify You.
And if You bring me down to the grave, may even my death glorify You.

That’s my only prayer.
I don’t ask for comfort, success, or even healing — only that my life would magnify Christ.
Because that’s the surrender He invites us into — the place where we stop chasing blessings and start beholding His beauty.

Lord, if You heal, may Your goodness shine.
If You don’t, may Your grace be seen in how we walk through it.
Either way, may You be glorified — in my body, in my story, in my life.

When His glory becomes our desire, even suffering becomes sacred.

🔥 Challenge to the Reader

So let me ask you — gently, but honestly:
What are you asking God for today?
Are you asking Him to fix what hurts, or to fill you with Himself?
If every prayer went unanswered, but His presence stayed near — would that be enough?

Maybe that’s what Jesus meant when He taught us to pray,
“Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.”

It’s not resignation.
It’s worship.
It’s saying, “I belong to You. Do what brings You glory — and let me be part of it.”

Because in the end, that’s the only prayer that never goes unanswered.
And when His glory fills your ashes, you’ll see — He never left at all.