O Lord, be merciful when I reduce Pray’rs to compulsions and repeat the lines Like incantations till my mind lets loose. I love you, but obsession undermines Abiding and I get stuck in the steps, Working to breathe instead of breathing free, Approaching rev’rence, bypassed to precepts. I struggle not to strive. But you know me. You formed me in the womb and there could see Each struggle I would face. I’m understood. When I can’t do, you give me grace to be. When all feels wrong, you still can make it good. Remind me of this truth when scruple binds: The Maker’s still at work in anxious minds.
The grass grown here is named for St. Augustine— The Florida one, not the church father, Though the bishop’s name befits this place. Lust in Its past plagues its present, and souls bother With all manner of “wisdom” while the truth Beckons from the lips of Christians homegrown And transplanted into the hard soil. Youth Still steal pears, or citrus here. On their own, One might think it impossible they’d find Their way from Desire. The city of God Is near and far. Yet the Father is kind, Answering Monica’s pray’rs, making sod Like Sodom’s sprout blades of grass that grow strong And vines that produce fruit further along.
For years, I wrote of learning how to walk, Of following the Master of the waves, Of choosing to obey instead of balk, Of trusting in the God who loves and saves. But I misdiagnosed anxiety, Embracing fear as if it was the Lord. I was a slave to scrupulosity. My death was unto him but was untoward. But light was shining though I could not see, And love was better than I ever dreamed. In time, he led me through and set me free, And all that I had broken he redeemed. I lost my hold but still was held by grace. Through suffering, I better learned his face.
I cannot change biology, I know. I cannot strip the seasons of their weight. I fight and fret to get my mind to slow. I will not e’er be freed this anxious state. My life is often tension, sometimes ease. I wrestle with my measure of control. But God reigns over all my -ologies, And he remains the Shepherd of my soul. I do not want this lot, but it is mine To steward till the Master comes again. I may now shudder, but I also shine With grace sufficient from the Light of men. My mind and heart malfunction. He redeems And leads my anxious mind by peaceful streams.
Seasons are strange things. In some ways, there’s a sense of safety in an understanding of seasons. For example, it’s currently summer, which means it’s hot and humid here in New Orleans. The weather feels almost oppressive at times, zapping our energy levels and frustrating us with its unrelenting heat. But summer is a season, and seasons change. Some day, the air will feel cooler and dryer. The weight of the still, stuffy air will be lifted by cool breezes, and we’ll feel lighter instead of heavier as we step outside. Knowing this, I can endure the discomfort of today because I know a change will come. I need not get lost in the difficulty of today; I can rest in the knowledge that this process will continue on as it has always done. This is simply the season for heat and humidity, and that’s okay.
Our understanding of seasons doesn’t diminish the difficulty of the present day, though. We who are especially prone to discomfort during summer suffer, in a way, while in that season, longing for the relief of fall. Likewise, we who are especially prone to discomfort during winter suffer in the cold as we wait for the relief of spring. The seasons don’t look the same, and we don’t feel the same way through them all. As they change, so do we.
Seasons of life are similar. We experiences seasons of joy and peace, of fun and freedom, filled with recreation and rest and friends and family. We also experiences seasons of hardship and loss, of discomfort and distress, of loneliness and isolation. We experience seasons of abundance as well as seasons of lack, seasons of much and seasons of little. “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens,” as the author of Ecclesiastes reminds us (Ecclesiastes 3:1). And we change with those seasons, sometimes growing, sometimes struggling to grow. And just like there are cooler days in the summer and warmer days in the winter, our seasons are not monolithic. There are genuine joys in the midst of hard seasons, and there are genuine sorrows in the midst of easy seasons. Life is complex, as are we. Knowing this brings some comfort, but it does not necessarily lessen the weight of our experiences.
Through every season, though, God is constant, steadfast, faithful. He remains sovereign over every season, Lord over every day we live. Jesus continues to intercede on behalf of his own. The Spirit remains with us to comfort, to convict, and to encourage growth in godliness. Though our experiences change, and though we change over time, our God does not. I think this is part of why Paul can say in Philippians 4, “I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). Though seasons change, one thing remains constant through it all. By centering our lives on Jesus, we find strength to weather any season.
That’s easier said than done, of course. In difficult seasons, it can be hard to abide in him. Our circumstances, our community, and at times, even our own thoughts, feelings, and bodies can feel like obstacles to walking with Jesus. We can know cognitively that he is with us and that he will sustain us without feeling it to be true, and we can try to seek him while feeling like our limbs are too heavy to do the work. In such times, an understanding of seasons can feel almost worthless. But if the Bible is true and if God is faithful, then there is always hope. Maybe in our most difficult seasons, our weakness doesn’t have to define our experience. Maybe it’s not greater effort but rest that will lead us to freedom. Maybe the answer isn’t in us but in him.
As seasons change, and as we change with them, it’s easy to lose sight of what is constant and unchanging. It’s easy to forget that the one who has overcome this world has indeed overcome this world, that even death itself has been experienced and conquered. If this is true, then nothing we face is outside of his ability to turn for good. Nothing we face, and nothing we become, is beyond his power to redeem. So we can exist in this season, and in every season, with a hope, a foundation, and a strength found not in the season itself but in the one who walks with us through every season. Further, we can rest in the fact that for those who love God, no season is wasted. All things work together for good (Romans 8:28), and nothing can separate us from God’s love (Romans 8:31-39).
Seasons change, and so do we. Sometimes we long for the change, and other times we dread it. In every season, though, I believe we can “taste and see that the LORD is good,” and we can find refuge in him (Psalm 34:8). We can hold fast to the promise of future glory, glory that will more than make up for any suffering faced in this life (Romans 8:18). And we find hope in him. If he has shown himself to be good and faithful now, amidst the change and discomfort of these earthly seasons, how much more does he want to give us in eternity?
Thank you to Maci for her feedback on this post! She makes everything better, and I am so grateful for her thoughtful eye.
Another day, another coffee shop, Longing for resurrection, wondering If they knew they were waiting, that the stop Was long expected, that the thundering Was temporary. Could they fathom hope Persisting past the ending of the dream? Was life from death a long-forgotten trope? Was this beyond God’s power to redeem? Or worse, was this his will? Could they not see, Deceived by words so many had refused, Tricked by the man—for man he seemed to be? Others were healed, but he died bloodied, bruised. The silent tomb was sealed. What would they do? Was anything they once believed still true?
This pain is not forever. It will pass away in time, as seasons change. It will be healed, touched by the one who tasted death on our behalf. Or it will be taken away one day in glory, when eternity outshines time.
We cannot now say which it will be, but we can be certain of its end, and its redemption.
as i learn to walk 