The Sun Still Rises Behind Leaves

On winter, abundance, and relearning how to see God in seasons of fullness

This morning I had a strange thought while drinking my coffee.

I realized I do not enjoy my coffee as much in the summer.

At first that sounded ridiculous. The coffee hasn’t changed. My porch hasn’t changed. The morning hasn’t changed.

So what changed?

The trees.

In winter, the branches are bare and I can see the sunrise unfold from the horizon. I watch darkness become pink, then gold, then light. There is movement. Drama. Becoming.

I sip my coffee and witness:

night → dawn → brilliance

Something in me exhales.

I think my nervous system learned long ago:

This is beauty.
This is comfort.
This is abundance.
This is what goodness feels like.

Then summer arrives.

The trees become full.

Green everywhere.

Abundance overhead.

And suddenly I cannot see the horizon anymore. I miss the slow unveiling. The sunrise still happens, but hidden behind leaves.

Without realizing it, my conclusion became:

“I don’t enjoy my coffee as much in the summer.”

But perhaps the deeper truth is:

I have learned how to find beauty in bare branches.
I have not yet learned how to recognize beauty hidden inside fullness.

And maybe this is true of more than coffee.

I wonder if this is what happens to us after long seasons of waiting, surviving, striving, grieving, or enduring.

We become experts at finding God in winter.

We have to.

We learn:

the miracle of enough for today,
the comfort of God in loneliness,
tiny mercies,
hidden manna,
warmth in cold places,
hope against odds.

Winter trains perception.

There is a sacredness there.

Some of the deepest intimacy with God grows in barren places because every small provision feels miraculous.

You notice the sunrise because there are no leaves blocking your view.

You notice manna because you are hungry.

You notice water because you are thirsty.

Need makes us attentive.

Longing keeps us looking.

And then one day, perhaps, abundance comes.

Not always dramatically.

Sometimes quietly.

More support.

More rest.

More safety.

More provision.

More beauty.

More green leaves.

And strangely… abundance can feel harder to receive.

Because abundance asks something different of us.

Winter asks:

Will you trust Me in emptiness?

Summer asks:

Will you trust Me in fullness?

Can you receive without bracing?

Can you enjoy without preparing for loss?

Can you recognize God when there is no emergency?

Can you remain connected when there is nothing urgent demanding your attention?

Because perhaps fullness carries its own vulnerability.

If you have lived long in survival, ease can feel unfamiliar.

Being cared for can feel unsafe.

Overflow can feel suspicious.

Some part of us remains turned toward the horizon, waiting for another dramatic sunrise to prove God’s faithfulness…

while all around us, the branches are heavy with fruit.

Maybe abundance is not less beautiful.

Only a different kind of beauty.

Maybe God did not disappear behind the leaves.

Maybe He is teaching us a new language.

The language of hidden sunlight.

The language of enoughness.

The language of delight.

The language of receiving.

Perhaps learning abundance is simply this:

Learning the sunrise behind leaves.

Learning:

the dappled light,

the birdsong,

the shade,

the warmth already present,

the way sunlight filters through fullness instead of arriving through emptiness.

Not less God.

Different revelation.

Not less beauty.

Different beauty.

Not less abundance.

A new way of seeing.

And perhaps this becomes a prayer:

Father, teach me to recognize You in green seasons too.
Teach me to enjoy what is already full.
Teach me not to mistake unfamiliar goodness for absence.
Teach me to see hidden sunlight behind abundant leaves.

Because maybe maturity is not only learning how to survive winter.

Maybe it is also learning how to inhabit summer.

And perhaps one day, while sipping coffee beneath full trees, we will realize:

The sunrise never stopped.

We simply had to learn a new way to see.

Poem: The Sunrise Behind Leaves

I learned You first
through bare branches.

Through winters
where every small warmth
felt holy.

I knew the language of scarcity:

one candle,
one promise,
one loaf multiplied,
one sunrise breaking open
on an empty horizon.

I watched You arrive.

Pink.

Gold.

Mercy unfolding slowly
against cold skies.

And I called that intimacy.

I called that abundance.

I called that love.

Then summer came.

Quietly.

Without announcement.

The trees grew full.

Green swallowed the horizon.

And I mistook hiddenness
for absence.

I said:

The mornings are not as beautiful now.

Not knowing

the sun was still rising,

still spilling itself lavishly,

still faithful—

only filtered

through abundance.

I had learned
how to find You in hunger.

I had not learned
how to see You in fullness.

Because longing kept me awake.

Need sharpened my vision.

Winter made me watch.

But summer asked:

Can you rest?

Can you receive?

Can you love what does not arrive dramatically?

Can you notice light
already surrounding you?

So teach me again.

Teach me the gospel of green leaves.

Teach me sunlight
through fullness.

Teach me how not to fear
being cared for.

Teach me to trust
the seasons heavy with fruit.

Because perhaps

the deepest miracle

is not surviving winter—

but believing

I belong in summer too.

In everything you do -eat, play, and love- may it always be seasoned with Joy!

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