It’s near the end of October, and the air is crisp and cool. The wind blows hard here on the prairie, the thermometer failing to reflect the chill you feel on your skin and in your bones. A smattering of pinks, reds, and oranges coat the white-cored, cottony fingers floating against the pale-blue morning sky. We are off to church early this Reformation Sunday morning, for the children are to sing in the choir and must rehearse their song before the congregation has gathered.
On our way, my youngest daughter watches the banks of Bear Creek, looking in vain for the turtles she has often seen sunning themselves by the water; but it is early yet, and too cool for them. The longhorns aren’t out this morning, either. I tell the children they must be in the trees near the pasture’s back fenceline.
The leaves are turning now, the yellows and occasional reds showing themselves after having teased us for some time, hinting of the changes to come with almost imperceptible splotches of color. They will fall quickly, as they always do here—here and gone and back again.
And so we renew our faith, following the cycle of the Church calendar. The service we will follow today is one written by Martin Luther himself, the great reformer employing the talents of Conrad Rupsch and Johann Walther to help him set chants to music, to write a hymn paraphrasing...