Finding Grace in the Changing Seasons

Well. That’s a strange word, isn’t it? A sigh of a word, a letting go. It kept echoing in my mind Monday morning, after the luncheon. A gathering of former colleagues, all of us trying to be bright and cheerful about retirement. Trying to plan, to *do*, to remain productive. It felt… forced. And afterward, sitting at my kitchen table with my coffee, I realized something simple, something I should have known all along.

It’s like the garden, you see. You can’t expect the roses to bloom every day, no matter how diligently you water and fertilize. There are seasons for growth, seasons for rest, seasons when even the most robust bloom seems to droop a little. Some years, the peaches are plentiful; others, the branches hang heavy with nothing but leaves. It doesn't mean I've failed as a gardener. It just means that's the way things are.

For years, I was caught up in the constant hum of activity. Teaching, grading papers, attending meetings, volunteering at church. There was always something that needed to be done, a deadline to meet, a child to drive somewhere. It was a good life, a full life, but I didn’t always stop to notice the changing of the light. I didn't pause to consider how the sun felt different in April than it did in October.

Marcus’s children, bless their hearts, kept me busy those two weeks in Brooklyn. The youngest, little Lily, insisted on helping me “bake” – mostly involving flour and a great deal of giggling. It was a welcome distraction, and a different kind of energy than I'd been carrying around. But even there, I felt it - a quiet ebb and flow. Some days, I was brimming with patience and laughter; others, I found myself needing a quiet corner and a cup of tea.

Jerry – my husband, for thirty-eight years – he’s always been a steady hand. He sees the patterns, the rhythms. He says I’m like the moon; predictable, reliable, but also pulled by forces beyond my control. He chuckled when I told him I’d been thinking about the garden and the roses, about how important it is to accept the seasons. “You always were a little slow on the uptake,” he teased, but I saw the knowing in his eyes. He understood.

And I’m beginning to understand too. It’s not about fighting the fatigue, the quiet moments of melancholy that seem to settle in like a light fog. It's about recognizing them, acknowledging them, and knowing that they won't last forever. Just as spring will follow winter, a burst of energy will follow a period of quiet reflection.

It’s also about extending that understanding outward, to those we work with, those we lead. We all have our cycles. Sometimes we are overflowing with ideas and enthusiasm, sometimes we are simply running on empty. To expect constant peak performance is not only unrealistic, it's unkind. A little understanding, a little grace – that can make all the difference. It's a simple thing, really. Just noticing.

The food pantry volunteers, they understand this in a way that’s easy to see. Some days, folks are bursting with energy, ready to sort and pack and serve. Other days, they’re tired, weary from their own struggles. But they show up anyway. They offer what they can, without judgment. And that, I think, is the truest measure of resilience – not pushing through, but showing up, even when it's hard, and offering what you have to give in that moment. Because the seasons will change, and the roses will bloom again.