Fruition and frost

How September brings an end to things, thanks be to God.

The word “fruition” has been part of my vocabulary for most of my half-century of life. I like it. I use it differently, now, than I might have before becoming a fruit farmer. If you use this word, occasionally, too, you likely notice that there’s only a certain category of labor and hope that it applies to, yes?

Nothing that takes ten minutes to accomplish, no matter how significant or skillful, is something that “comes to fruition”. How long do we need to give a thing before we can use the word fruition to describe its completion? It carries seasons in it, that word, and it contains both the satisfaction of harvest and the sweetness of fulfillment.

It hints at weary joy.

The growing season at Good Courage is coming to fruition, now. We are joyful, and we are weary. When the bluestem grass on the prairie turns luminous in the evening (meaning 4:30, now…dang!) sun, and the honeygold apples glow on the branch, we can see and taste the work of the season gathered into fullness. It is not just that something has ended—it’s that the end itself is beautiful, nourishing, and good. In a world where so much feels uncertain and half-finished, where the works of generations seem to be ending by coming undone, fruition reminds us that there are things that come to ripeness, things that can be savored and shared. As the psalmist sings, “You crown the year with your goodness, abundance flows wherever you pass” (Psalm 65). God is still making abundance possible, even here, even now.

September on the farm is a moment when fruition and frost are what we’re living for. Yes, the fruits are sweet and abundant, but the trees and vines, the squash and the sunflowers—they are pouring out every last drop of life’s energy into seed and fruit. The bees are worn thin with their gathering, waking cold and immobile in the morning-chilled dahlias and michaelmas daisies. The tomatoes are still twining green and laden with shades of orange and red, and they are newly fragile; we break the plants apart on accident as we pick in the evening shade. We too are stretched by the work of bringing it all in.

I finish most September days grateful and exhausted, saying,
“Okay, it can freeze, now. Bring it on.”

Sometimes it seems as though the whole Creation is panting with the labor of harvest, almost longing for the first frost to ease its striving. Frost, when it comes, is the friendliest of enemies—it settles gently, silvers the fields, and tells the weary land and its creatures, “Rest. That’ll do.” In these anxious days, that reminder is gift: the labor is real, but so is the call to rest. We are so many of us trying to hold our communities together with our bare hands. Even the fruit that falls to the ground – the institutions we can’t save, the ways of living that have reached this season’s end – all of it becomes soil for the season that is coming. Fruition is a pattern that brings grief and life. Frost enhances the sweetness of a fruit’s sugars for a moment, even, just before it finishes off both the fruit and all of the pests that have troubled us, the pestilence that we’ve struggled against. This is important to know.

Even more important to remember, about all that comes to fruition:
Within every ripened fruit, gathered or fallen, is the seed of next season.

In this place where we live and grow, the frost comes with a message of difficult hope: Only the cold yet to come can crack open those seeds, scar them into germination. But they will grow. Spring is not a one-time affair, friends. There are uncountable good harvests ahead — and so much good work.

My prayer for all of us is that fruition and frost might together speak a word of hope into our own season of cultural and spiritual upheaval. While the news cycle delivers complete misery every ten minutes, underneath that frenzy of short-lived and violent grasping for power is the truth. The truth – that only love frees us from fear – is what will come to sweet fullness, in time. The fruits of that truth – justice, kindness, gentleness, self-control – may feel hard-won, but they do come to ripeness.

And even when the air grows cold and we worry what will wither and when, we know that the ripening is how God gives us the seeds of what comes next and the energy to tend them.

The sweetness of the present moment and the chill that closes one chapter both carry God’s assurance that nothing is wasted, nothing is lost. Past, present, and yet-to-come are braided together by grace. So let’s take heart: in the fullness of this season, amidst all its changes, we are invited to trust that God’s goodness is still ripening, still flowing, still bringing life. Look for it.

All that God longs for will most surely come to fruition.