I love autumn leaves. Whenever I see a mass bundle gathered together in glorious technicolour, a wondrous unplanned riot of golds, oranges and reds, carpeting roads, pavements, parks and canal paths willy-nilly, something in me wants to run over and kick it with sheer glee.

I once heard someone say that autumn is a season for melancholy. Not so say I! Instead, autumn is a season to gasp at God's genius for design and praise him for giving us life, light and leaves...

Here in Oxford, with a multitude of smells, the crackle of bonfires, amazing light that in the morning feels so ethereal that it can't possibly last, the naked crispness of the air that draws breathe quicker than normal and leaves everything feeling so vulnerable, the autumnal world feels like God's personal stage with nature casting a team of thousands, bit-part players wherever you look. From the colleges dotted around town with their carefully crafted Cotswold stone - resplendent in the fragile sunshine, to the parks that seem to be having one last heave-ho at advertising their summer collection before the inevitable onslaught of wintry decline, to the beautiful old pubs hidden away down cobbled alleyways with their cozy nocks and crannies, and huddled, animated fireside conversations, to the fog-drenched canal with its tideline brimming to overflow and the passing swans gliding silently away with regal carefree abandon, I have lately felt like a punter watching a heavenly play, seeing everything in the world given lines and watching them following the script faithfully and without deviation.

At such a time, I think of one of my favourite quotes. In praising the joy of children, Chesterton wrote: ‘They always say, “Do it again�; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again� to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again� to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.'

I am sure that God makes every leaf and never tires of doing so, each one bringing him infinite pleasure. Chesterton saw this clearly and it makes me want to thank God for giving us all that he has. And perhaps more than any other time, fallen-leaf season reawakens the child lying within (especially when I see a bundle lying in carefree abandon waiting to be kicked!).

If you are reading this, why not take a fresh look at the world around you. It's amazing. Go for a walk and kick some leaves. Breathe in deeply and smell that air. Marvel at the rich palette of sights and sounds on offer, and view the glorious whirlwind of colours brought together by a heavenly maker who is something of a genius when it comes to creation. We are partaking in the most amazing natural play, 24 hours a day seven days a week, with all of creation playing its part, offering signs of wonder and evidence that God is real and that he loves us.