When the Leaves Fall

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.