To Everything There Is A Season
Fall comes fast in the South.
I know because I’m enjoying the first weeks of autumn in the forests of North Carolina, and every morning greets me with fresh evidence of its turning.
Strange that the fall season, exactly the opposite of the new birth inherent in spring, still suggests a sense of starting anew. Leaves flame, fall lifelessly from the branches and crunch underfoot, yet I always take hope from its beauty and feel like it’s a prelude to a fresh start.
The end of things, yet the chance of a beginning, too.
I wondered about that a lot on my flight, in a week where it felt like the whole world was holding its breath, desperate for a redemptive restart.
Sadness crept in like September’s lengthening shadows and it seemed to me that introspection about all the deeper questions of life bubbled to the surface in our collective grief.
Those feelings stirred up latent memories, especially when I read a Substack post from my dear friend, Mike, who writes often about music and the memories it evokes. Mike’s substack.
For those of us who lived through the turbulent sixties, with its campus violence and horrific assassinations, music became a therapeutic response to the nation’s pain, especially among the younger generation. In 1965, two songs were recorded in response to the cultural chaos of that time. One ominously titled, The Eve of Destruction, and another softer song called, Turn, Turn, Turn. An American rock band,The Byrds, recorded the latter, taken almost entirely from King Solomon’s writings in the ancient book of Ecclesiastes. Listen here.
I like to think that the wise king’s words offer an alternative response to life’s tragedies. One that remains relevant thousands of years later.
To everything there is a season…
An ebb and flow, a rhythm at once unwelcome and yet undeniable. Heartache and wrenching pain birthing new possibilities of reconciliation.
It speaks to the irony of life’s opposing experiences predictably co-existing.
A time to be born… a time to die,
a time to plant… a time to reap,
a time to laugh…a time to weep.
Grief has always been just that…the end of things but the chance of a beginning, too.
My hope is that in the collective grief of our nation, we can find a collective rebirth. From Evergreen, Colorado to Charlotte, North Carolina, from the Manhattan memorial grounds of NYC to the campus of Utah Valley University, my fervent prayer is that this could be so.
Proverbs 31 Ministries published one of my devotions this week that can be read here. Although I wrote it months ago, it seems timely.
“Do Our Prayers Fall Short,” is helpful for anyone…like me… who has ever felt inadequate and incapable in the face of hard things. I have and I do. What we lack in confidence in the area of prayerful petitions, though, we make up for in a willing and pliable heart. I think God honors that heart. I hope we can cultivate that heart and learn to honor that in each other.
P.S. Typically, September nudges me into the kitchen with a “hankering” to slow braise some pot roast and simmer some maple BBQ sauce for pulled pork sandwiches. That felt too big this week, so I tried taking baby steps into the new season with my favorite fall fruit. I love serving Apple Crumble in these mini cast iron skillets. I found some here.