Traditionally, Mongolians say that autumn begins after the sporting festival Nadaam, in the middle of July.  This makes us smile as the days are still hot, although by August a gentle northerly wind has nudged a chill into the evening and morning. Darkness comes down earlier, and the coolness touches the landscape.

Flowers begin to fade and petals fall. Leaves, tinged with gold, spin silently earthwards, while the short season of rain saturates the woods, leaving them filled with a humid sweetness that draws fungi to life. Red and yellow minute umbrellas, tiny white puff balls and brown sombreros cover the decaying floor. Blueberry and lingonberry, sea buckthorn and cranberry shine on bowed branches, beckoning pickers to gather their bounty.

Autumn has a core of fruitfulness at its heart, and yet this fruitfulness is a prelude towards decline.

The holidays are over. Metal shutters cover windows, and heavy locks secure front doors as families leave their summer homes and return to the city. Dismantled gers, loaded onto the back of small trucks trundle along our road, taking their owners to their more secluded autumn locations.

Under the quiet morning sky, tiny pearl beads sit on the ground. The frost has started to fall, deepening the forest’s colour until its stands resplendent in orange and red. The sun hangs lower with light that is softer, more golden. This is a season of great beauty.

Purple thistles swirl in the breeze until their light and downy heads disperse and fall to the ground. Dormant they rest, waiting for warmth and nutrients to quicken new growth.

Before that new growth comes, however, we must endure the demanding season of winter. It is strange to think of winter when life is so full and the trees are still bright. But the time when all appears dried up or just plain dead will come. I wonder whether that knowledge intensifies the beauty of autumn?

Our friend Bayar-Jargal’s life is lessening. Her cancer rages and yet there is an indescribable beauty in her. The bed-sit she shares with her sister is rich with warmth and colour. Each person who enters receives a word of encouragement: a scripture, a prayer, a word of exultation that implants itself in their hearts and carries them forward. Friends who’ve recently returned to work overseas, speak of her words as a seed, beckoning them forward to a new season of ministry.

While Bayar-Jargal scatters, she is also preparing to become the seed that, in the hands of the Creator of this world, will fall into the ground.

The winter here is barren, long and harsh. The brilliant sun and clear skies cover a snow-covered land devoid of growth. Yet contrary to appearances, this landscape is not dead. Come spring the land will turn green, wildlife will awaken, flowers bloom and the trees brim with leaves.

Right now, colourful autumn is marching towards winter. We cannot stop it! But in the lessening of visible nature, we are confident, that the seeds of new life have already being sown.