The colors of autumn are muted this year, thanks to a leaf fungus that has metastasized inward from the edges, speeding death. Still, radiant yellows, glowing oranges and hemorrhaging reds have exerted stubborn, spotty brilliance, bordering winding roads with breathtaking surprises. The saturation level is disappointing, but the glory is resilient.

I am not just talking about leaves. I am talking about people. People like those I met on the streets of Portland not long ago. Trudy, slumped and sunken by life’s hardships, yet tender and vulnerable. Shannon, penniless and bruised by abuse, but still dreaming of a medical career. Even Jack, filthy and drunk as he was, displayed with his wit and grit the residue of wasted potential.

Diseased yet glorious. That is what creation is, and that is who we are. A little lower than the angels, spotted with the fall’s decay, waiting for the restoration that will surely come at winter’s end.