There is a beauty in death, if you can look beyond the pain to find it. The leaves, in all of their glory, have been radiating across the countryside for weeks now, their vibrancy lighting up the landscape like fire. Nothing quite compares to a New England fall, the variety of colors astounding even those of us who have lived a lifetime here. But now their beauty has faded and, in a last effort to cling to the life they had lived, each one holds on with a surprising tenacity. Their resistance is pointless, but I don't blame them. They are holding on to everything they've ever had, clutched in a vice-like grip on the last semblance of living they have left. No, I don't blame them at all. I envy them. At least they're still holding on.
There is a time in every journey when the shackles of crisis fall away, leaving you free to pursue the Promise Land, but yet you still have more road to travel. Not still waiting to move, but unable to find a resting place - you're not in Egypt, not yet in Canaan - it's the desert.