Seasons

On more than one occasion in the past month, coworkers have seemed baffled by my outfits at work. I know what you’re thinking, Mom. No, it’s not because I look like a hobo, which has happened more frequently than I would care to mention. It’s because it’s fall. And that means that I have hit my stride. Lookin' fly in my many-an autumn inspired outfit.

As the evenings get longer, the nights colder and the drinks warmer, I always find myself nestling into the comfort of the season. Cardigans? Yes, please. Boot socks? All day. Flannel on men? Lord willing. It’s when girls stop dressing like floosies and dudes start dressing like lumberjacks. Essentially, it’s my paradise. 

Preparing for the season, much like Doomsdayers for the apocalypse, we hit the malls buying our body weight in riding boots and tights, corduroy jackets and even the occasional knit hat. Girls stalked Pinterest picking the right outfits to brave the cold (okay, 60 degree) weather that would soon hit Texas. I stocked my pantry with wassail, soup and my crisper with butternut squash and greens.  

Seasons are unpredictable here in the Lone Star State. You may be greeted with sunny skies and 70 degree weather on Tuesday morning, but in your sweat pants battling 30 degree skies by Wednesday night. To make it here, you have to get your meteorological bob and weave on. 

Many a well-meaning older woman occupying the pew next to me on a Sunday morning has given me wisdom about my ‘season of singlehood’, like it’s some pre-menopausal limbo erring on the side of a chronic illness that is quickly going terminal. 

“Bless your heart, honey, this is going to pass. It won’t always be bad,” she says, patting my thigh in that maternal fashion that only Baptist women know how, as if this moment in my life is for the worst, a wart on my twenty-something timeline. 

Though some seasons are cold, and others are warm, every season is needed to sew seeds into a harvest. 

The sweetest strawberries ripen after a frost has shocked their vines. Stress causing the juice to sweeten, the berry to turn a vibrant red. A season of rain, flooding the fields reaps a harvest full of rice, or if you are a redneck like me, possibly the fattest crawfish you’ve ever seen. What is typically seen as a catastrophic event, is a necessary moment for the harvests that feed our lives.

So why do we see our seasons as this cloud looming over our heads? Why do we shudder at the thought of a season without rain or a season where the rain never seems to cease? 

You may not be single. You may not be happy. Or you may be in the most joy-filled year you have ever seen. Regardless of where you are at, you are in a season. One that is meant to make your fields rich for the harvest, whether shocking or gentle, your fields are not your own, but land bought at a price, paid for by a King. 

Mediocrity is the result of sameness. Lack-luster crops are grown in seasons that see no change. Fields can't grow if they have constant rain. They don't produce a harvest if the sun always shines on them. Seasons are necessary for growth, sowing and reaping a harvest. Don’t shy away from them.

As I face the inevitable hills of my twenties, braving the valleys and the mountaintops, summiting on my weakest days, crumbling by my own stubborn desire to ‘do it alone’, upheld only by the grace of a salvation I don’t deserve, I find that the newness and freshness of each day brings me the most joy.

Could I live a life filled with consistency, my own personal Groundhog Day? Would I rather face the world scarless, no battle wounds to reflect the strength I gained during the hardest winters? Or can I bundle up for the cold, strip down and enjoy the cool waters when the heat turns up, and bask in the crisp autumn airs of my seasons?

You are always in a season, Dear One. That is what my God says to me. You are worth so much more than a common-place life. You are too important to be left where you are.