I have nothing against fall, itself, really.  The weather turns crisp and cool, but in a refreshing way.

Like a sip of ice water after a long, hot day.

And the leaves are beautiful.  And we have so many of them here.  The colors really are a palette that only an artistic God could create.  With reds and yellows mixed in perfectly with oranges and browns.

Also, I love me some long-sleeved t-shirts.  And jeans.

(Although, I have yet to try those on, the jeans, and really am not looking forward to the event.)

But I can’t help but think about the season that follows fall.

The cold, desolate, dead winter.

The leaves are pretty, yes, but how many more days until they all abandon their branches?

I hate empty branches.

I spend half the year pining and searching for the slightest hint of green in the trees.

Bleak.  Lifeless.  Dreary.

Not to mention, the cramming of the kids with oversized winter coats into carseats.

That’s always fun.

Breathe…. breathe… it’s not winter yet, Beth.  It’s barely even fall.  Look at all the green left on the trees!

I can do this…