The Seasons of Life. originally written 2009 We’ve all learned the language of seasons when we talk about life. Spring is the beginning—birth, scraped knees, first words, and the awkward business of figuring out how to exist in the world. These are the formative years. They shape us whether we’re paying attention or not. If we’re lucky—and vigilant—we eventually learn to examine what influenced us: what was life-giving, what was damaging, and what quietly took root before we knew better. If we are lucky-we can learn and grow beyond those events good and bad. Summer arrives with momentum. Marriage, children, work, responsibility—the years when we officially become “adults,” whatever that means. Growth doesn’t stop here; it accelerates. We learn while doing, often the hard way. Families grow alongside us, sometimes beautifully, sometimes painfully, and always imperfectly. There are no directions for life-a lot of OJT is what we get. Autumn follows—a season of settling. The children are grown. The noise shifts. Some of us become grandparents. We look around and realize life didn’t turn out exactly as planned, but it did turn out real. There’s a certain honesty to this season, whether we welcome it or resist it. Then comes Winter—if we are among the lucky. OR is it Winter? I don’t see Winter as an ending. I see it as a clearing. A season that strips away illusion and leaves what matters. Every decade of my life has required me to learn how to walk and talk all over again—just differently. That doesn’t stop because the calendar says so. We continue to learn how to redo, just as when we learned to walk. Things take longer, we can’t do the same tasks in an hour, it now becomes hours. Winter offers the chance to grow deeply, if we’re willing to see and hear what’s in front of us. By now, we’ve lost youth. We’ve made mistakes so bad we were certain no one would ever love us again—and then we were proven wrong. Again and Again. We are still surprised by the love, compassion, and generosity of others, and for many of us, by the absolute, unconditional love of God. As a child, I had a dream. It didn’t disappear—it evolved. New dreams took its place. New possibilities. And maybe someone reading this will recognize their own quiet optimism still standing, still breathing, still hopeful. I believe in the good. I can see the bad and the ugly—I’m not blind. But I also believe this: Love prevails. More to come.