A Grateful Life Lived

Seasons are helpful metaphors. Their impact extends far beyond Weatherbug (or Apple Weather if you’re one of those people). No, seasons are all-encompassing of life. We have spiritual seasons, life seasons, and rainy seasons; we go through seasons of unmaking and seasons of healing. At any given time, we are fluxing from one season to another, finding our bearings in the process. Occasionally, it feels like winter won’t end. The cold aches—barren and uninviting.

That’s what I was thinking as I scraped snow off my car off last weekend. I was less than enthusiastic about the four-inch blanket on my car. My arm-across-windshield method garnered the sympathy of a neighbor, who graciously offered to help.

“Thanks, but I’m almost done,” I replied sheepishly. In truth, my efforts were lacking. I knew my ice scraper was somewhere but I had preemptively stored it away when the temps hit seventy degrees. April in Colorado had been glorious, so I’d staunchly declared it to be spring early in the month. Clearly I didn’t have the authority to usher in the next season…

While it’s easy to laugh about the temperamental weather—more so now that it’s warm again, it’s less humorous to consider my responses to the ebb and flow of life.

Rain, Sun, and Waiting

One time in middle school, our track practice was interrupted by a vicious wind and a cloud that settled over the front straightaway. I watched as the rain poured on the other side of the track—cautiously creeping across the infield. I watched my teammates get soaked and followed the line of rain as it inched closer. But it stopped just shy of where I stood. The storm resurged in earnest on the ride home, but the distinctiveness of that moment on the track is still lodged in my mind.

It’s also the best descriptor I have for my current season of life. I’m in a “chaotic rainstorm” season. Yes, I know God is here, and I remember His voice. At the same time, my surroundings are chaotic and strange. I’m concerned for myself, for others, and for what’s coming next. My head pulses with awe—amazed and terrified of how small I am.

I know God is here, and I remember His voice. At the same time, my surroundings are chaotic and strange. I’m concerned for myself, for others, and for what’s coming next.

Pardon my bluntness here, but healing sucks. It really does. And you can’t tell me I’m wrong, because I’m standing in the muddy mess of it and I keep getting stuck. Sure, healing is marvelous and growing… and, I wholeheartedly believe it’s quite unpleasant if you’re doing it “right.” Not only that, but it’s jarring to confront tough stuff, set boundaries, and walk away from what/who is harmful. It feels akin to standing on a track as you watch the rain barrel down the distance to where you stand. At the same time, the struggle of healing is exciting because it (usually) indicates progress.

Healing Sucks

A few weeks ago, God compounded the reality of the struggle for me in a very visual way. It was a challenging week that climaxed with eerie rainstorms (internally and externally). After a few days of nonstop rain, the sky began spitting snow. Snow! I rolled my eyes at God because I (quite irreverently, I admit) was annoyed. I was looking for all the ways I could prove I was despisable and unfortunate (“woe is me”).

Then I saw a crab apple tree.

I saw quite a few, actually. They stood out because their had recently bloomed and, in response to the freakish weather, their petals froze; a nescient sign of spring. The pink velvet was coated in ice—delicate yet resiliently hanging on. And I thought to myself, “I want to be like that.”

I’ve been nothing but skittish lately, though. I joke that I am “behind on life,” but the statement couldn’t be more accurate as I consider the three-day-old laundry sitting in the washer and my aptitude for letting my car become a hazard zone. I can’t manage to ship packages, call people back, or spend enough time with loved ones. Life feels exhausting, and I’m not even doing it well.

It feels like a faux spring… one moment of respite that’s followed by harsh wind and cold, over and over again. I tell myself it’s my own fault—that I ought to be ashamed and pull it together; that doesn’t seem to create the forward momentum I hope for, though. In a quick pivot, I start to wallow and scramble; sputter and sleep. All this to simply stretch out my hand on a cold April morning, touch a crystallized blossom, and realize. . . I just want to be held.

So Here We Are

Every story ends with summer sunshine, right? Nope. The world keeps spinning and we continue to vacillate between temperature extremes and internal pressures.

But something does shift, and that’s what I’m calling to mind lately. As much as we allow Him to, the Spirit softens and strengthens our hearts to do battle in every season of life (Lam. 3:21). Like a miniscule spring blossom, waiting to thaw, we can wait with expectation that with each season, God provides. Maybe it’s not what we think He ought to provide (i.e. snow in April!), but He provides it and He fosters hope in us as we learn over time: He’s trustworthy.

So, the storms are rattling the windows and splitting the tree branches. But you and I are neither a window nor a tree. We are flesh and blood and hope… maybe we are resilient enough to breathe through the pain and fear. After all, isn’t that one key reason God provides seasons, in all their forms?

I dunno. But part of the reason I’ve been so hesitant to write lately is because the words I dig up are inked with tears and frustrated. It is good and it is growing me; it’s not how I prefer to be seen though. And yet. . . how can we magnify God’s goodness if we cover up the muddy moments of our faith trek?

That’s my aim.

See, words matter. And when they are shared with discernment, wisdom, and honesty; they make a big difference. So, if you’re in a wacky season and need hope for the poncho-pounding rain that’s blinding your view: you aren’t alone. And for those who hope in Christ, we have an Anchor. It is solid and firm and I’m so dang glad because it buoys my hope in this journey.

Things aren’t bad. They aren’t stellar. They just are. I, on the other hand, am well.

Cheering For You,

Han