Seasons

I was born and raised in the Central Valley of California. Seasons in the Central Valley were felt more from the passing of sport seasons than the weather. While fall meant some of the trees would change colors, I often wore shorts and sandals well into October, and was lucky to see any rainfall before January. Springtime was only recognized because of the allergies and almond blossoms, but the sudden onset of heat in late March and early April had me convinced there were only two seasons for us: hot summer and colder summer. Fall and spring happened for less than a week and barely separated the two seasons. This way of life was only exacerbated when I moved to Santa Barbara.

Life changed when I moved to Buffalo, New York. I remember walking out of the airport at midnight on the late August night and the only heat I could compare it to was what I had felt in India. It was a heat that was tangible. I felt like I could pick it up and hold it in my hands. As I made my bed on that first night out of nowhere a lighting bolt lit up the sky and the thunder shook the walls in my rustic room that was an old patio converted to a back bedroom.

With a thunderstorm as my introduction, it was not long at all before the heat began to fade away, a cool morning breeze set in, and every tree turned the most beautiful shade of orange. It was not long after the cool breeze started that rain storms passed through multiple times a week. For the first time in my life I invested in a working and durable rain jacket. My memories of going to football games at my high school with smoothies and shorts were replaced by Tim Hortons hot coffee and hand warmers in my pockets. The months of October and November were long and beautiful. Fall seemed to not only mark transition, but seemed to extend an invitation to live life slowly and differently.

Then the first snowfall happened. The slow rhythm of fall became even slower as the cold temperatures permitted less and less activity during non working hours. The roads were dangerous and the days were short. I read more, slept more, and seem to recharge from a long 22 years of never being invited to do so.

I remember driving home from an all day work event in mid March and rolling the windows down to feel the warm air between my fingers. The snow slushed under our feet as we walked our neighborhood that evening, enjoying the longest and warmest day we had felt in months. As the snow thawed so did our slow paced rhythm to life. The bikes came out of the basement the kids turned off the televisions and returned to the streets for basketball and soccer.

I am convinced after spending a year in a place so deeply impacted by the changing of the seasons, that we can understand more about our God and they rhythm of life He intended for us when we listen to them. I am member of the Free Methodist Church. Our particular church follows a liturgical calendar and uses a liturgy each Sunday. The liturgy is a way in which we communicate with our God. I would argue that the seasons of life are deeply liturgical. We are marked by literal season that we feel in the air. But, we also live lives marked by seasons of joy and sadness, of anger and pain, abundance and scarcity, thanksgiving and questioning. Seasons remind us of the passing of time and that nothing, but our God and His Kingdom, is forever. There is something deeply liturgical about the rhythm of life we experience when we stop and listen to the pattern set before us by the Creator.

I am convinced that our rhythm in Southern California reflects our idolatry. When we do not stop to slow down and rest, when we let our endless summer dictate our lives, we get distracted from the divine invitation to know God and enjoy Him forever. With summer quickly approaching may we remember that other parts of the country are coming out of hibernation, that their season of rest has prepared them for a season of work and planting in the garden. As we continue in our warm weather rhythm may we remember to slow down and enjoy the warm summer nights. May we meet with our God in a way that our idolatry pleads us not to. May we fall in line with the saints as we step into a liturgy that is not limited to this season or our time and place in history.