monday milk & honey: following heaven’s calendar into autumn

To Everything There Is a Season

“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.”

- Ecclesiastes 3:1

Bumpkins and pumpkins in the field (1892) Maria Klass-Kazanowska (Polish, 1857-1898)

Heaven has its own calendar. It does not rush, compete, or hustle. It does not measure success by productivity, but by fruitfulness. The moon marks the months. The soil keeps time. The trees announce the change before any app or planner ever does.

When we live by Heaven’s rhythm, our tables begin to tell a different story. A story not driven by performance, but by participation in God’s unfolding work.

Curled Autumn Leaves (1872) Mary Vaux Walcott (American, 1860-1940)

We remember that winter is not an ending. That autumn rest is not laziness. That spring is not rushed, and harvest is not earned. It’s received.

Hosting from Rest, One Cup at a Time

I used to meet every gathering like a race. There would be scrambling, cleaning, and trying to prove I could do it all. But the more I tried to perfect the moment, the less I actually lived in it.

Over time, I discovered a different way: hosting from rest. It doesn’t have to be a grand dinner or a carefully staged table. Sometimes it’s just a cup of tea, a few cookies, and two chairs pulled close. Sometimes it’s breakfast with a neighbor, or sharing muffins with the boys after school. These small, ordinary “gatherings” have become my daily bread. They’re sacred not because they are extraordinary, but because they offer presence.

Scenes from an afternoon outdoors.

Now, hosting like this feels a lot like autumn.

The world slows, the colors deepen, and even the air seems to invite reflection. There’s space to savor the meal, linger over conversation, and breathe. It’s the opposite of summer’s bustle—where the table is full, the yard alive with activity, and the energy constant. Autumn’s hospitality is a grand slowing down, a gentle leaning into what matters most: connection, gratitude, and rest.

And I began to see that the truest hospitality isn’t measured by how much you prepare, or how many people show up, but by how fully you show up—present, calm, and welcoming, just as you are.

Adapting to Nature’s Gifts

Creation sets the table for us long before we ever light a candle.

Spring reminds us to open the windows, to breathe deeply, to keep things light fresh herbs, tender greens, and hope on every plate.
Summer is for abundance activity: long tables outside, laughter echoing through dusk, and meals that taste like sunshine.
Autumn beacons us to slow down warm bread, soft linens, gratitude in every detail.
Winter calls for simplicity: slow soups, flickering light, fewer words, deeper stillness.

When we follow nature’s cues, we begin to gather from rest, not from striving. Our menus become prayers of thanks, our tables altars of offering.

And whether the gathering is a feast or a quiet cup of tea on the porch, we begin to see that every invitation can carry eternity in it.

“As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, will never cease.”

- Genesis 8:22

Prayer:
Lord of the seasons, teach us to follow Your calendar, to plant when it’s time, to rest when You whisper stillness, to harvest with open hands, and to feast with hearts of gratitude.
May our tables, our teacups, and our moments of stillness, mirror Your faithfulness.
Amen.