Dear Friends,

Well, the sunhats are all put away, the ice-cream van is quieter than it was, and if you risk a stroll past the lake without a waterproof, you’re braver than me. Summer has slipped gently past us once again. We’ve had our share of visitors — some here for the beauty, some for the Beatrix Potter souvenirs, and some who simply took a wrong turn off the M6. Grasmere Rushbearing was, as ever, a curious blend of joy, tradition, and trying not to trip over one another in church. Grasmere Sports brought its usual display of strength, stamina, and the excitement of the hound trails. And school holidays reminded us that children have more energy than the national grid, while parents… don’t.

Now we turn towards autumn and winter. The fields are quieter, the fells a little more brooding. Harvest gives us a chance to say thank you—to God, to the land, to those whose work keeps us fed, and perhaps to the inventor of central heating. Then comes Remembrance, where silence speaks more than words can, as we honour courage and grieve loss. And before we know it, Advent arrives: that strange season of waiting for what we already know has come, and yet still long for afresh.

The seasons do something important for us. They remind us that life is not a straight line but a rhythm. We are not machines endlessly producing, but creatures learning to receive, to rest, to rejoice, to mourn. God has stitched into creation a reminder that nothing lasts forever — except love.

And that is the good news at the heart of it all: summer's visitors may go, autumn's leaves may fall, winter's nights may lengthen, but the steadfast love of the Lord endures forever.

So as we put away the sun hats and reach for the scarves, let's walk together through these changing times with gratitude, with gentleness, and perhaps even with a smile. After all, if God can work through harvest barns, war memorials, and even Advent calendars, then God can surely work through us, here and now, in Grasmere and Rydal.

With every blessing,

Lawrence