The air smells different once September arrives. It's more than cool breezes, bonfires, and aging leaves that signal autumn. It's a feeling that drifts unseen through the arboretums and picturesque college campuses. Life rhythms are changing. Summer sunny walks and warm, pink cheeks are exchanged for oversized wool wraps and boots that kick leaves absentmindedly.
We keep walking, but the changes around us force us to adapt in order to keep going.
On my 4th wedding anniversary, my husband and I watched a video of our wedding and a slideshow of our first year together. Tears came to my eyes that had not been there when I initially made the video, and I realized it was because all that has happened since that time has made the memory of that season even more profoundly beautiful. Like soup that tastes richer after some time in the fridge, memories build on other memories until you have a depth of flavor. And it's both the good and the bad, the sweet and the salty, the acidity and the bitterness that give these seasons their unique character.
Looking back on my spiritual journey, I see a big exhale that happened when I got married. It was a fulfillment of a dream and a feeling that God's willingness to let me suffer had an end. I became a wife, and over time, I learned how to care for myself and my husband and my home. And with that season eventually came the struggle to have a child.
Does God's will for me include having a baby? Do I have enough energy? Am I capable of carrying to term? How will this affect my health? How will I get through labor? What will I face if my child is unhealthy? Is this path even possible?
And that challenging season (coupled with the soul satisfaction of marriage) was full of disappointments and physical pain, full of anxiety over what I ate and drank, full of doubt and questioning over a choice that would change my life forever but with no solid answers. "The Ghost Ship" was an article I read which talked about how you can never know the way your life would have been once you take the fork in the road - either way - kids or no kids.
After so many months of false hope, finally getting a strong positive test affected me deeply. I was ecstatic. But I was scared to count on this. Scared it would be taken away from me. Even up until labor and, indeed, even after my son was born, I had the fears that trauma victims always carry - will this too be taken away? What if the worst happens? God does not owe me a perfect outcome. Do I have the ability to be at peace when this could all end in tragedy?
These feelings were made all the more vivid as complications came up and my son lost weight too fast and failed to gain enough in the first few months. Week after week, I was consumed by the daily tasks required to keep him alive, as well as feelings of failing him.
Like Elijah, lonely in the wasteland after a giant triumph, I was unable to do more than what was required for basic survival. I was haunted by fear and regrets and loneliness. I wondered if the long dark nights of spitup and the rhythmic hum of the Medela would ever end. I breathed in and out. I pumped. Others fed me. And I know God was there.
In this quiet business of survival, winter eventually turned into spring. Instead of staying awake all night pumping, I was able to return to sleeping at night and cautiously start nursing more. I saw the sun again. The scale started to creep up. The tongue-tie, lip-tie, reflux, and food sensitivities had enveloped me in a frightening season, during which I felt his newborn moments were tainted and colored by the urgency to gain weight. Yet gradually, he began to thrive.
And spiritually, there were adjustments happening with God. I rested in him. I took comfort in not needing to perform to be loved. I didn't need to study footnotes, read long passages, fill in blanks, or push myself into attending services. I was barely able to whisper pleas for enough milk each day. Instead of striving, I was able to abide in his love and give thanks for all he had given me.
Now that my son is growing and moving on to new milestones like solid food, crawling, and standing, I can feel my spiritual season changing too. Nudges from verses I read to him are welcome reminders to return before my rest becomes drifting. And deeper thoughts about family stresses draw me like a magnet back to Jesus. How do I refocus on Christ when my mind panics and flails like a drowning man in a sea of worries? (Isaiah 26:3)
In singleness, in illness, in infertility, in struggle of any kind, there is a yearning and a place for pain but also for very specific joys. The encouragement (and caution) I take from looking back is that all these seasons do indeed end and new ones begin. It is up to us to intentionally find the moments of joy and not miss all the unique seasonal qualities that will soon fade like the changing leaves. Those moments are grains of sand slipping through the hourglass, to be treasured like the grasp of tiny baby hands that will one day be grown.
Do not lose heart when you are struggling. God is there working even when we are not reading or praying or worshiping in a standard/recognizable way. He is enough. We may find ourselves seeking or resting, doubting or believing, questioning or settling, striving or still, but above all, always waiting for him. In my sleep deprived state, I'll meditate on one verse, sing to him, or whisper short prayers, and take comfort that I'm doing what I can to respond to God's love in this season.
After all the waiting I went through with God, to be married, to be a mom, I feel such intense gratitude in the midst of exhaustion and endless tasks. I look into a mirror with my son to show him his reflection. It's a mirror my dear friend gave me for my wedding as a reminder of the reward for my long-suffering and waiting. "He has made everything beautiful in its time," it says. As I look at my son's smiling face, remembering the long, hard road to get here, I agree. If God can do all this in a broken world, in a broken body, in a hopeless situation, what marvelous eternal gifts are yet to come?
