I had appointed October as a season of rest, at least in my mind, without giving much thought to actually planning that rest. After the busyness of September and a week away at District Conference, I was looking forward to slowing down. The elk rut starts to wind down, the leaves begin to change, and I imagined October would provide an opportunity to catch my breath, maybe even get out and do some archery hunting.

Apparently, October hasn’t received the memo. Instead of slowing down, the calendar continued to fill. There are people I need to meet with, responsibilities that demand my attention, and ministries that need preparation. Community Closet, Centershot, Sunday services, meetings, and a seemingly endless list of things that need to be done.

And then there was the opening day of archery season. Something I had been looking forward to for months arrived, and instead of enjoying it, I found myself wrestling with disappointment. I was tired. My shoulder was bothering me so much that I couldn't even draw my bow, and now my back was beginning to complain as well. I was increasingly aware that I had allowed the demands of ministry to dictate too much of my schedule. There were people I felt I was letting down, things I hadn't accomplished, and opportunities I was missing. I wrote in my journal that if I didn't start learning to say no, I feared I would eventually break. Not exactly the October I had envisioned.

But as I sat with that disappointment, I became curious about the word itself. I discovered that disappoint once carried the meaning of being removed from an appointed position. Over time, its meaning shifted toward hopes and expectations left unfulfilled. I found that fascinating.

Suddenly the realization hit me that I had appointed October to be something it had never promised to be. A season of rest. But October is not necessarily a season of rest; rather, it is the season of harvest. And harvest is hard work.

Some of the things filling my calendar are not merely interruptions. They're the result of work that began long before October arrived. Relationships that have been built. Ministries that have grown. Opportunities to serve people in meaningful ways. There is a harvest happening around me. But recognizing that doesn't make the work any less exhausting. Nor does it mean every responsibility belongs to me. I've been wrestling with that distinction.

Then, on Monday morning, I witnessed something unusual. I had gone out to photograph the sunrise over the mountains of north central Pennsylvania. As the sun began to climb above the distant hills, brilliant clouds caught the morning light. Something about the scene struck me as different, though I couldn't quite explain it at the time.

It wasn't until later, when I returned home and began looking through the photographs, that I finally recognized what had caught my attention. The clouds above the rising sun appeared to be farther away than the sun itself. Of course, they weren't. The sun was millions of miles beyond those clouds, yet from where I stood, the scene seemed to suggest otherwise. It was a trick of perspective. And once I recognized it, I appreciated the photograph in an entirely different way.

Nothing about the sunrise had changed. The sun was still rising over the mountains, just as it had every morning before. The only thing that had changed was my understanding of what I was seeing. I've been thinking about that sunrise ever since, especially as I've continued wrestling with disappointment.

Scripture reminds us that God has established the rhythms of creation. Psalm 104:19 says, "You made the moon to mark the seasons, and the sun knows when to set." (NLT) There is something reassuring to me about that. The sun rises and sets according to an order that I neither established nor control. The seasons come and go, often without regard for my expectations or preferences. The same God who appointed the sun to rise also appointed it to set. Even the longest days eventually come to an end. Rest is not an inconvenience to the work. It is part of the rhythm of life that God established.

I cannot do everything. I cannot meet every need, attend every meeting, or personally carry every responsibility. There will always be another opportunity, another ministry, another good thing asking for my attention.

But not every good thing is mine to do.

Jesus told His disciples that the harvest was plentiful, but the workers were few. Then He instructed them to pray to the Lord of the harvest to send more workers into His fields. I've read those words countless times. Yet I wonder how often I've lived as though the entire harvest depended on me when it doesn't. The harvest belongs to the Lord. And perhaps part of my responsibility is not simply to work faithfully in the fields, but to recognize when I need to step aside, invite others into the work, and trust God with what remains unfinished.

My calendar is still full. There are people to meet with, responsibilities to fulfill, and decisions to make. And I still need to learn to say no.

But that sunrise has challenged me to reconsider what I thought I was seeing. Perhaps October deserves another look, too.

On Monday morning, the sun was exactly where it belonged.

I just needed to look again.