Season

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For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: 

a time to be born, and a time to die; 

a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; 

a time to kill, and a time to heal; 

a time to break down, and a time to build up; 

a time to weep, and a time to laugh; 

a time to mourn, and a time to dance; 

a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together; 

a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; 

a time to seek, and a time to lose; 

a time to keep, and a time to throw away; 

a time to tear, and a time to sew; 

a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; 

a time to love, and a time to hate; 

a time for war, and a time for peace.


Ecclesiastes 3:1-8


The beautiful parity of these verses have long made them a standard. Even people who don’t

know anything about the Bible or consider themselves particularly well versed in spiritual

things would probably recognize them, or at least a few of the lines. There have been songs written, poems penned, sermons preached, and common wisdom dispensed. 

But it’s not true. 

The neat separation and distinction of seasons where one or the other is happening is not life at all. Every one of us knows this human life is a soupy, roiling brew of multiple emotions and moments, forming sublime and absurd dichotomies that change moment by moment. 


And thank God that is true. 


If I had to live through this grief as an entire season with no laughter, no healing, no peace,

no dancing, I am pretty sure I wouldn’t last. The moments of effervescent laughter (which

one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, describes as carbonated holiness) with my funny,

soulful friends give me the breath I need to bear down when the next breathtaking

contraction of loss sweeps through me. Dancing with abandon, while tears stream down my

face, has to have its place. Recognizing, again and again, the enormity of this loss followed

immediately, again and again, by my ferocious desire to never stop seeking my son - this is

the same motion for me. Feeling absolutely leveled and without the will to continue,

balanced by the circle of prayer and people and love and community who carry me when I

cannot carry myself. 


For every cry, a comfort.

For every ache, a balm.

For every dark day, the miracle of enough light to see just a little bit of hope. 


It is not a season, but a circle. 

An inhale and an exhale. 

The intimate pumping of a heart. 

Contracting. 

Releasing. 


Repeating.


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