When Seasons Change
“How do you say goodbye to a season that He’s used to make you into who you are?”
I’ve been wrestling with this question that Sara Hagerty poses at the end of her book Every Bitter Thing Is Sweet. A story that I’ve cherished for over two years ended far sooner and harsher than I expected. I’ve been unwilling to say goodbye because I don’t want to accept that the season is over, nor do I know how to move forward. I am hopeful that “goodbye” is not final. If I am truly different because of the season I have walked through, then the stories I’ve experienced will remain part of me. They live on in my journals and in my memory. And yet, in order to step into a new season, my thought processes, dreams, and even prayers need to change. There is joy in letting go, and there is also grief.
As I’ve attempted to gather my thoughts on this process of letting go, I realized I’m trying to communicate wisdom about how I succeeded in moving forward. But I haven’t done it perfectly, nor am I anywhere close to being done. I am very much still in process, and want to write from that place. Sometimes I dig in my heels and spend days feeling angry and sad about the ending that I did not choose. Other days I feel shame that I am still wrestling so much with the reality of this ending and my failed expectations. But in my moments of surrender, the Lord has been faithful in opening my eyes to see his goodness. Just this week, I named all the dead and decaying roots that have been a painful part of this story, and off of each root came a shoot of new life. Where there was disillusionment, I have experienced the release of my own control and planning. Out of my fear of rejection has come a deeper acceptance in Jesus. From a block of my emotions has come the freedom of tears. Through intense disappointment and loss has come intimacy with God, who I’ve now experienced as my comforter and protector. There are other roots that I am still waiting to see sprout forth new life, but I’m grateful for the progress I see right now.
I wish I could write a step-by-step guide to moving forward after a transformative season, but the process has not been easy or straight. Especially because the story I’m emerging from became the dominant narrative I viewed life through for the majority of the last two years, the experience of replacing thought processes and releasing memories is slow and arduous. It actually demands that I am attentive to the old thoughts and memories in order to heal from them. The following practices are not comprehensive, but have helped me acknowledge the past as well as begin to have hope again for the future.
We lament. I’ve cried more in the last five months than my entire life combined. Probably five times as much than the entirety of my life. I’ve learned to not be ashamed of my emotion, but to welcome it. If authenticity is “being honest about your emotions in the moment” as my friend Courtney suggested, then I celebrate tears as a victory in my journey towards authenticity. Lament is also a crying out to God for change and for comfort. It recognizes that this world is not what it is meant to be, and it helps me long for the day when “sorrow and sighing shall flee away.” (Isaiah 35:10)
We let go, while remaining grateful for what was. This looks like daily prayers of surrender and of gratitude. Moving forward does not negate the beautiful, transformative parts of our pasts. We surrender what was, while celebrating how it shaped us. This part feels natural to me. The harder part is surrendering what currently is, especially if I don’t like it, and surrendering my future, especially if I want to plan it. But we can always find things to be grateful for right now, and the practice of thanksgiving roots me in the present and releases my grasp for control of the future.
We press into the hard and the holy. These feel like they’re in tension, but in reality, they’re not opposed. Most things, including the things that shape us, are both hard AND holy. Just naming the fact that life is hard and my heart feels heavy has been a step in freedom for me, especially when I name it to a friend. Knowing that someone else sees and is holding my pain with me is a game changer, particularly in moments where I’m tempted to self-isolate and wallow.
We find magic in the mundane. I made a bucket list of ways to celebrate ordinary experiences such as “dance in a parking garage.” Every day is shaping us, and every day we have the opportunity to choose joy. So, I turn on the La La Land soundtrack and dance in the kitchen while I cook. I celebrate a student opening up to me about their day, or a beautiful sunrise, or a spontaneous phone call with a friend. It’s the magic of human connection and beauty that inspires awe and wonder and can transform any mundane moment into a miracle.
We remain open. This practice is the hardest for me. Pain makes me shut down and turn inward. And yet, to be open is to offer without withholding or preserving. To be open—like a bowl—is to hold, but be willing and to spill over onto others when tossed around. This takes vulnerability and trust that others will receive our stories. I’ve had to accept that my story will never be nearly as meaningful to others as it is to me. My comfort has been that Jesus walked through each moment and memory with me, and I can remain open to him who will hold and heal my pain.
Letting go is a process that has no clear ending. It’s like a continual falling of leaves through heavy storms, as well in the middle of a sunny afternoon: sometimes we’re hit by a storm, other times we let go gently and joyfully. We often expect change to look extravagant, like the stark contrast between Midwestern trees on October 1st and December 1st. But we’re usually somewhere in between, changing, letting go, growing, moving forward, all at once.
And so, after a conversation that brought clarity and closure to the season as I’ve known it, I went shopping. Sometimes a new beginning looks as simple as going to buy groceries (I can’t say buying groceries is one of the mundane tasks that feels magical, but I’m hoping I can get there). I have done the work of lament, and I will continue doing so. I have given God thanks and praise for how he has shaped me through the stories and people he ordained for this past season. Some days I am sad because of my lingering sadness that I realize will be ever-present this side of eternity, and other days I am joyful simply because the feelings of joy and delight have returned. I delight in a story well-lived more than well-finished, so I celebrate this process.
How do we let go of the stories that have defined us? How do we move into the unknown? By grace, through faith, in Jesus, that he has been faithful, and he still provides the growth.