I stepped outside the other day to let the puppy out and smelled it. As Nessie raced around the yard, nose to the ground, finding the perfect place to pee, I lifted mine and made out the musty smell of flowers in last bloom, decaying plants that have offered up their final harvest, the unique blend of weeds that make their appearance during the second week of August and the hot, final push of summer.

And it made me nauseous.

Instantly, I became aware of the cicadas and their call for fall. And it made my heart race and my palms sweat. The sun hung low and heavy in the sky and I realized…it’s the end. The end of long days, flip flops, warm sweaty kids, dirt between toes, skipped lunches, water clogged ears, sun burns and no schedules. But for me, it’s not just the end of summer.

For as long as I can remember, fall has meant the end. As a little, the end of summer meant the end of a visit with my mom. For another year. At its worst, when I was youngest, it was a traumatic forced removal. At its best, when I was older, an unhealthy reinforcement that fall was to be avoided at all costs.

I made some headway while the kids were little. Some new memories of fall. What’s not to love about a toddler picking a pumpkin or going on a hayride? A kindergartener finding their hero’s costume to wear or learning how to make applesauce and apple pie?

Now, the second week of August has become Baby Girl’s first diagnosis day. Which I was convinced would be the end of me. Or at the very least, the end of my sanity. It was neither. However, it did become the end of life as we knew it. And eight years later the very smell in the air has the power to transport my body to that same day, answering the phone. The nausea, the racing heart, the sweaty palms. Sometimes even the blacking of the corners of my eyes and the roaring in my ears. Not to mention the inability to sleep.

But here’s the thing. I know it’s not the end. Not really. It may have been the end of what we knew, but it was the beginning of something better. Something bigger and richer. Though my body might not have gotten the memo, my heart knows there is great joy. Fall means the beginning of a life I didn’t know existed. Where every day is cherished, both good and bad. Where our very definitions of priority and blessing, faithfulness and love, were turned on their heads. Where there is deep, deep gratitude and preciously simple joy. Where we have found a lifelong dependence on the Lord and the joy of watching Him faithfully provide.

It also now means the beginning of a homeschool year. The beginning of learning both about the world around us, and the God surrounding us and within us…together.

And this year, it marked the beginning of new life for Mini Hubby. An incredible gift of which the timing is not lost on me.

In short, this is a season I haven’t and won’t likely ever choose. I may never run racing for the first pumpkin latte or stock up on the spice candles. I may never decorate for fall and long for hoodies. But, it’s a season my heart is beginning to love as God continues to use it to bind me up and restore that joy within me. And I suspect I’ll have to continue to fight for that as my body catches up with our current circumstances. And, as I was reminded this week, there is still an enemy that would steal my love and gratitude. There is a thief that still, on occasion, sneaks in during the night and tries to rob my peace and silence the profession of my joy to the glory of God.

I’ll keep fighting because though this season continues to be a roller coaster of ends and beginnings for me, I know there is really never an end. Not really. Not for those in Christ. He is all new life and new beginnings for those who put their faith in Him.

There is no end in sight.