Birth and death. Each of those things happens once physically, but between the first birth, the last death, there are so many more small births, small deaths. I’m not talking about reincarnation, I’m talking about resurrection.
The seed dies in one season. In another, the new plant grows. If the seed resisted its death, its legacy could never be realized.
We will find laughter. It will fill our lungs with life, and our eyes with tears. The tears will come again when the laughter dies. We will find sorrow sitting so close to us, a season of grieving to be so much a part of our life that we will swear we are dying ourselves. But sorrow will also die. In another season, joy will return. We will dance again.
We will build monuments of solid rock that crumble in an afternoon, and dreams we swore were ours to hold, will slip through our fingers like sand. The dream has died. The dreamer is still alive. Can the dream slip beneath the rubble? Can it die like the seed, sacrificing its own life for the hope of a new dream?
We will hold a person so close. We will feel the warmth of human embrace in a season of deep and personal love. We will feel held together. We will feel whole. We will need that bond, because in another season, hate will be strong and it seeks to occupy the space that love made.
We will be lost in a frozen wilderness, and we will need love more than anything. Our search will come up woefully empty, and we will swear we’ve wasted our time. Love knows that is not true. Love will know that we survived because we are held up, every breath, by the author of love. When we call off the search, love will still be close by.
We will be torn. Maybe we will do the tearing. Perhaps we have lashed out, cut off, said, “I’m done with you,” and severed ties. Maybe we will allow a small death, our own pride, to mend what we’ve torn. Perhaps we’re too late. Perhaps the tear was deadly. We remember love, but all we feel is loss.
We are resurrection people. Dead friendships can be resurrected to show the world what life can be like when Jesus stands in the gap.
We may be tempted to think that words are always the solution, and sometimes they are. We must not forget that listening is important. A season of quiet, being alone with God as our only companion. In those times, we die to insisting that we be heard, and we find ourselves born into better listening, find ourselves learning compassion and empathy because we heard someone else’s voice before our own.
Seasons of death and resurrection, dark and daylight, may seem disconnected from one another. Only when we look back do we see how life was growing in the midst of sorrow and we realize: In the scope of eternity, death is not the opposite of life, it’s a part of it. Inhaling and exhaling, crying and laughing, grieving and dancing, taking and giving. They are not disconnected seasons, they are the framework of our life. The shadows brighten the lights.
Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.
In this moment, the season you’re in now, maybe it’s unseasonably warm. Maybe you’ve been blown over by a hurricane. One thing we know, seasons come to pass. Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning.