I stepped outside this morning and heard the crunch of leaves under my feet. The air still smelled like fall. You know that scent; a little earthy, sunny and brisk, and filled with the last notes of a season that is quickly slipping away. It feels almost impossible to imagine that by the weekend we will be staring at blowing snow and frigid temperatures. My mind has a hard time holding both realities at once. Fall all around me. Winter barreling toward me, not even asking for permission.

Life has a way of changing before we feel ready. One moment we are standing in the familiar, and the next we are navigating something we never expected. A phone call. A diagnosis. A shift in a relationship. A blessing that surprises us. A loss that takes our breath away. An unexpected opportunity. We imagine we will have time to prepare, time to gather ourselves, time to get our bearings before anything big happens. But seasons do not ask for permission. They arrive because life keeps moving.

Though it doesn't seem real that we'll be scooping snow off our steps and digging out our cars within days, we prepared anyway, because inevitably, it will come. We made sure the snowblower is ready to go, the bag of ice melt is by the steps, and the shovels are easy to grab.

The way we ready ourselves for a change in the weather has something to teach us about tending the heart.

We all have a habit of saving soul-work for later. Later, when the house is quiet. Later, when our minds feel uncluttered. Later, when our hearts feel settled enough to open. But storms do not honor our calendars. Faith does not sprout full-grown the moment trouble arrives. It is planted in the simplest moments of ordinary life. If we put it off too long, we end up reaching for roots we never tended. We ask for steadiness we never practiced.

The invitation, I think, is to tend to the soul we have right now. Not the imagined one we hope we might someday become. I think about Noah. He built his ark in the sunshine. He built it when there was no cloud in the sky and no reason to panic. He built it while the neighbors laughed at him and while the world around him went on with business as usual. The work of building did not begin when the first raindrop fell. It began long before the storm arrived.

Faith grows in the daily choices that help us breathe a little deeper. It grows when we pause long enough to notice that we are not alone. It grows when we choose kindness even when we feel stretched thin. Those small practices layer wisdom into our lives.

Quiet. Ordinary. Steady.

That is how we get ready for whatever season comes next. When we practice gratitude, honesty, courage, and compassion in the middle of ordinary days, we grow a faith that can hold us when the winds pick up.

My wish for you this week, Reader, is that you will care for the life within you as gently and intentionally as you care for the space around you. As the seasons shift, may you find strength already growing in you. And may that strength carry you into whatever comes next with steadiness and hope. That's the fiLLLed life.

Live a fiLLLed life, Melissa ​