Seasons change us

Have you ever seen the Cherry Blossoms in Washington D.C?.

Beautiful.

I caught a glimpse of them while visiting my brother in D.C. during spring break as a college freshman.  It was too early for most of the blossoms to bloom, but a few hardy buds made their way out into the early spring breezes.  That was the year that Pat died – later – of a cancer that moved in quickly and aggressively.  For years, those spring breezes and blossoms were unwelcome reminders of his illness, grief, and "tissue-typing" at Walter Reed Hospital.

These days, I hope to visit the Cherry Blossom Festival and take my time immersed in the swirl of color, smell, history, and adventure. Pollen is a small price to pay to experience the seasonal burst of life and the chance to remember his good life.

Up until a few years ago, fall would always be a tough season for me.  This wasn't because of school starting (because I love school!), but because of memories too painful to acknowledge and too aggressive to stay squished in the tight lock box of my soul.  

When my kids began to grow, their excitement for life began to make fall an adventure of school supplies, new library cards, NEW CRAYONS & PAINTS; new paths to school, friends to make, and for a season – a School Dog to get to know. 

What really untethered the seasonal funk was the excitement and fear of training for my first half marathon. It was set in October and promised a tour of Kansas City as the leaves changed. Training runs with pals leading up into that first KCMO 1/2 were most often rich and fun – at least when they were over. After the initial queueing up at the race start in Crown Center (and wanting to bolt and barf), the run through the neighborhoods and Westport and around lakes and through the volunteers and past the musicians changed my heart. 

Fall was free again.

Now, I'm facing a new season and bracing for the changes that seem to be lining up.  I don't know what it all means, but I sense a shift is coming.  Another shift. 

Adventures in Missions has been such a transformative place – a grace – and I am wondering what is ahead.  And though I know that this God we seek and who loves us is not sleeping, the idea of more change – another season like July – December 31, 2011 – has me shaking in my bunny slippers.  That was a season of harsh grace – of coming to terms with my own hubris – towards freedom. 

Who knows? 

It could just be that the rain is beating a staccato on my patio; a vaguely familiar song of spring.