There’s a smell that arrives every year about now.
It’s not quite the heat of summer, but it’s not the cold bite of winter either. It sits somewhere in between – damp earth, fallen leaves, the faint smoke of someone’s fire drifting across the air. The grass getting its final cut before the frost. Shops starting to smell faintly of cinnamon again. Apples and toffee, rain and wool, pumpkins and candles. The kind of scents that makes you feel something before you know why.
It’s the smell of the season.
How smells carry us
Smell is strange, isn’t it?
It doesn’t just exist in the moment – it takes you somewhere.
One whiff of bonfire smoke and I’m back on a field, clutching a sparkler and trying to keep my gloves dry. A hint of cinnamon and I’m in my childhood kitchen. Cut grass and I’m ten years old again, sitting on the steps in the garden helping Dad with the mower, proud of the albeit crooked stripes we left behind.
One moment, you’re walking down the street, minding your own business, and then – with the faintest trace of a smell – you’re seven years old again, you’re at Uni again, you’re in a moment from your past. You’re not trying to remember. You’re remembered by something larger – by the world, by your senses, perhaps even by God.
I sometimes think that’s what grace feels like. A sudden, unexpected return to belonging.
Autumn Grace
Autumn has a way of teaching us about that kind of grace. Everything changes slowly, yet all at once. Everything changes – yet nothing is wasted.
Leaves fall, only for trees to breathe. Leaves fall, so there are nutrients for the soil. Leaves fall, so new life can emerge. Not right now, not just yet – but it is coming.
That’s the quiet rhythm of grace: endings that make room, falling that becomes forming. The beauty of Autumn isn’t only in what we see, but in what’s unseen – the slow, hidden work of newness that’s already underway beneath the surface.
And maybe that’s why I find myself thinking about Advent.
Because for all its candles and calendars, Advent is actually quite short – only a few weeks to prepare for the arrival of the King.
As a child, it felt endless – a countdown that stretched on forever until Christmas morning finally arrived. But as an adult, it seems to come earlier every year, swallowed up by shop displays and lists of things to do.
Yet the preparation that matters most – the kind that happens in the soul – doesn’t follow the same rush. It’s slower. Quieter. More like the turning of a season than the flipping of a page.
The preparation for new life, in all its fullness, isn’t measured in days or decorations. It’s measured in attention – in the way we let grace do its hidden work beneath the surface, shaping us for what’s still to come.
Holding the in-between
This season, more than most, lives in the tension of what was and what’s to come. Autumn isn’t finished, but Advent hasn’t started. We’re between the harvest and the hope.
But maybe that’s where most of life is lived – somewhere between the endings we’ve just walked through and the beginnings we can’t quite see yet.
I sometimes wonder if God’s presence is most tangible there – in the half-turned leaves and the slow-setting sun. Not in the loud declarations of summer or the stillness of winter, but in the quiet turn of the season.
When the world smells like change.
Breathing it in
The smell of the season lingers, even as the days shorten. It reminds me that God is always near, even when everything else is turning. It calls me to breathe a little deeper, to trust that the shifting of the seasons isn’t just the world decaying, but the world preparing.
Because that’s what autumn really is – preparation disguised as decline. A quiet renewal taking shape beneath the surface.
And maybe that’s why I love it.
Because it feels honest. It doesn’t hide its change – it wears it, openly, beautifully, with all the scent and colour of transition.
So for now, before the lights and carols take over, I’ll keep noticing. The smell of grass after the last cut. The faint spice of cinnamon. The crisp morning air that catches in my chest.
And I’ll whisper a small prayer as I breathe it in – Thank You for this season, and for being here in the middle of it.
Josh | A Curious Follower
Advent will come soon enough – but this is the season before that season. The one that smells of apples, cinnamon and bonfires. Before we rush ahead, may we stay here a while. Breathe deep. Notice what’s changing. And let grace meet us in the middle of it all.
If this reflection stirred something in you, I’d love you to share it, comment below, or subscribe to walk with me through the months ahead – where we’ll keep exploring how curiosity, grace, and wonder shape the life of faith.
A Curious Follower is growing slowly – one noticing, one story, one conversation at a time – and your presence here makes it what it is. Thank you.