Seasons

We had a little dinner party last Saturday night. In preparation, I raked the who-knows-how-old green turf rug that covers our back patio (believe it or not, the tool for the job is called a perky carpet groomer) and considered getting rid of the old nasty thing. It irks me every time I find ketchup dripped and drying on it, paint and paint brushes, random containers of water, mudpies, crushed rocks (the boys are on an endless quest to find geodes)–basically all the signs of kids enjoying their summer.
I try and remind myself: there is a season for everything, a time for this and a time for that. This is a sincere, unending quest for perspective in my own messy sphere of living. I am not an orderly person, but I sense there must be, naturally, an order to life, because I’m quickly overwhelmed by a lack of peace when I busily try to multitask and ‘seize the day’. Kids have upped the ante when it comes to keeping all the plates spinning. To what lengths, exactly, should I go to ensure their well-being? What must I sacrifice on the altar of good parenting?
For a season, everything. Time, I think, a paying job, and a bona fide resumé. A porch and home swept clean, maybe some dreams. It is not a cheap or sparkly endeavor.

I had a mortifying experience yesterday. I took all the kids to a brand new cello teacher. While my oldest was having his hour-long lesson, my third boy began puking all over the white-carpeted basement. The cello teacher’s dogs rushed to lap up the barf, my little girl began crying because the dogs were no longer playing with her. She hit her head in the drama and began screaming. The cello teacher’s wife rushed down the stairs, I picked up FC and ran to the toilet because he was choking…I wanted to run away and cry. It was terrible. I sort of hope I forget the incident, that it gets wiped from my memory like it never even happened. (If I write it down and force it into a single black-and-white paragraph, maybe it won’t haunt me?!)
God sure knows how to keep me humble. What a lesson in patience and compassion. I couldn’t have hustled my way out of that nightmare, I could only endure it.
This makes me wonder: maybe there’ll be seasons, even whole years of enduring so that God can reap a bounty of righteousness in your life.
Living seasonally isn’t only a natural progression, but a catalyst for God’s work. For things to grow and bloom properly, for the wheat to fall and produce seed for the next generation, we must submit to the rhythm of seasons.
The world tries to fool us into a twilight zone lie…that there are no seasons, that beauty and joy senselessly fades, and we must pour our energy into fighting it. Look around and ask yourself, where am I finding examples of seasonal, fruitful living? Put down your phone–you won’t find any answers on social media or CNN–they are empty cesspools promoting a doctored life. They will tell you that coveting youth is only natural, that you are only appreciating la vida pura, nothing more. Your home, body, wealth, possessions, freedom: this is the tangible, ultimate proof of happiness.

Today’s inspirational speakers and dreamers argue there are no seasons–there’s only hustle. You can have it all–the hallmark illusion of the American dream–is bound up in your own strength to wrestle it into existence. But we know this isn’t true. If success is only found in your ability to hustle, you will miss whole seasons of your life. Ask any old man who wished he had worked less and spent more time with his kids. Ask any old woman who has nothing to show for her life except bitter complaints that her own grown children won’t visit her. Muscling the dreams of youth to the ground only reaps neglected acres of weedy thorn patches.
We flat out ignore this to match the pace of the world around us. We shamelessly neglect important things. We forget about seasons. We age, and we are shocked when regrets crease and multiply like wrinkles in our soul.

At our dinner party, my newest friend, Mary, a sweet ninety year old lady, sat across from me at the table and matter-of-factly uttered profound observations on living. On traveling to Egypt and Italy in her twenties, “I knew I had to see the world before I settled down.” On quitting her job in her thirties to raise her children, “I just didn’t feel comfortable leaving that job to a stranger just so I could keep my career going.”
She spoke sans regret. I could see her confidence, her joy in looking back on years of trusting God to use her life intentionally. She was peaceful, beloved by her children and husband. Hers was a testimony I long to hear.

The reality of aging, the falling apart of our bodies (vessels we once thought we indestructible)–only crystallizes with each passing year. No wonder we flinch when we see odd hairs sprouting, new bumps and wrinkles and aches popping up…it is the sting of death! Pain is the surest response to puncture. We loathe it, but we cannot halt it. If we deny the law of time, we must make the world our home, the people in it, our temporary audience. We worship our youth and despise our future. It becomes self-fulfilling and bitter, a war to the end. We forget that beauty fades, but there are far more valuable things to treasure.

On Mother’s Day, I took pictures of families at our little church. I printed them off and passed them to all the moms the following Sunday. Ruby, eighty-something–a witty, sweater-and-pearls walker-pushing wonder (and the best friend a three-year old girl could have)–chuckled when she saw her photo.
“Well,” she joked, “I suppose it won’t get any better than that.”
The people who age with the most grace seem to be aware of seasons. “She is clothed with strength and dignity, she can laugh at the days to come.” (Psalm 31:25)

They aren’t surprised by the passing of years. They are weathermen and weatherwomen, anticipating atmospheric change, preparing for the coolness of fall, stocking their cellar for the frigid winter.

Mary’s husband, Richard, stepped from the green turf patio back inside our house after dinner was over. The kids had entertained them with singing and music until it had gotten dark. He leaned on his cane, dark eyes gazing around my kitchen and dining room. He noted how comfortable it felt, how familiar it was to his own home.

“You haven’t updated any of the kitchen since the house was built, have you? Ha, this is the same range and oven I have in my house!”
I shrugged and remembered the crusty patio rug I was sweeping only hours earlier.
“I guess there’s no sense in changing anything if it isn’t falling apart,” I said, because my own ears needed to hear it.
“You have a beautiful home,” he nodded, patting my five year old on the head.
I knew he was talking about more than just the house. His words ring with truth. He is wise–a new friend, an old weatherman, hinting at seasons to come.

Since my youth, God, you have taught me,
And to this day I declare your marvelous deeds.
Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, my God,
Till I declare your power to the next generation, your mighty acts to all who are to come.

Psalm 71:17-18