I’m so used to describing life in terms of “seasons.” You hear people say at church, “I’m in a season of fruitfulness” or “I’m in a season of waiting” or “I’m in a season seeking God” or “I’m in a season of trial” or “I’m in a season of rest.” I tend to box myself in to the season I think I’m in, and I forget that one cannot box God into predictable movements in our lives.
I do like patterns, but sometimes a season doesn’t behave like it’s supposed to.
So when I’m out in the backyard to view the Winterberry’s new bright berries, I compliment my husband on how he removed most of the Velvet Leaf that covered our raspberry patch. I expected to see the bare, brittle canes rising up to the near-winter sky. After all, it’s mid-November. This season means the garden has gone to sleep under the lull of frost and bitter wind. It’s the season of emptiness and waiting.
But it’s not at all. My husband and I see a strange harvest where no harvest should be. We peer down and find the brightest, ripest berries. We stand there, gobbling up the berries like children. (We’re in a season of adulthood, but even we don’t behave as we should.) I remember that seasons don’t always do what they’re supposed to do or yield what I think they’ll yield.
On this late autumn day, I stay observant with my hands open to receive whatever comes. I don’t claim I know what’s supposed to happen or what a season of life means. God can do anything, at any time, in any way, to any one, by any means.