I awoke this morning to a thin covering of snow on the ground; at last it is winter in New Hampshire.  The glory of autumn is a faint memory, and the trees are now bare and stark against the cold grey sky.  A few stubborn leaves remain.  Dry and brown, they cling to the limbs, refusing to fall to the ground.  Refusing to let go.  Refusing to give up.  I am reminded of how I am often like these leaves.

I see them clinging for dear life to a source that no longer satisfies their needs.  And just as the tree no longer gives life to the leaves, my former addictions no longer sustain me.  In fact, they never really did.  But instead of letting go, I cling to false hopes and promises.  Even though I am dying, I cling.  Even though I am alone, I cling.  Even though every law of nature tells me to let go, I cling.

Letting go looks like death.  Falling to the ground to wither and rot seems like the end.  But it is only the beginning.  Dead on a limb, I accomplish nothing.  But broken and willing on the ground, I become one with the dust; transformed into fertile soil prepared for new growth. 

The Lord desires me.  He desires to grow me into a new creation.  He desires to raise me from my pit of despair.  But first, I must let go.  I must let go…and fall…and rest in His hands.  Only then will the winter of my soul experience the renewal of spring. 

"I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." –John 12:24