The Wisdom of Seasons: Letting God Work, Even in the Mess

The seasons are changing again. You can feel it in the wind—or lack thereof. This week’s forecast is for hot weather, after a spate of balmy breezes that led me to walk the neighborhood more than usual. The blooms of spring have given way to the green fullness of summer, and before long, leaves will begin their slow, gold-drenched surrender to autumn. The seasons pass more quickly as we age. It seems so. Yet somehow the shift still catches us off guard: this quiet, faithful rhythm of growth, death, and renewal.

Nature has no shame in its process. A tree doesn’t apologize for dropping its leaves, and a field isn’t embarrassed when it lies fallow. There’s no judgment in winter’s stillness or summer’s blazing intensity. But when it comes to people—especially ourselves or those closest to us—we’re often quick to reject the process if it doesn’t look neat, timely, or safe. I have to watch the latter more often than not. The instinct to protect can easily transform into stifling, for good reason of course. But is protecting oneself or another always a good idea? 

We want blooming without breaking. Growth without pain. Resurrection without the grave.

But God doesn’t work that way.

In Scripture, so many of God’s most miraculous works come wrapped in mess. Joseph was sold into slavery. Ruth lost everything. Paul was blinded. Even Jesus, perfect in every sense as God and man, faced betrayal, silence, blood, and death before His glorious resurrection. Their lives, for a season, looked like disaster. But the hand of God was never absent—just hidden beneath the surface, working something deeper than what eyes could see. 

But true faith is believing without seeing, not grousing that our team lost or our child did this or that or that we ourselves aren’t the pinnacle of what was expected. Age grants one the insight to navigate personal slings and arrows, if we’re blessed. But we are called to treat our neighbors like ourselves. Christ came to heal and renew, not denigrate or cast aside as lost cause. 

What if we gave others—and ourselves for those who still struggle—that same grace? What if we stopped panicking when someone’s “process” doesn’t make sense to us? Process can mean delving into dangerous activities, too. We all learn on a different curve and Christ, in His wisdom, grants us that opportunity without cutting us off from His perpetual offer of love, help, and forgiveness. Instead of leaping to judgment, could we pause and say: “God may be doing something I don’t understand yet”? 

I imagine Christians of the day were hesitant to trust Paul. He was the same Saul of Tarsus who formerly crowed about rounding up Christians for extermination. 

Yet, too often we speak death over what God is still cultivating. We look at someone in crisis and whisper, “They’ve lost their way,” not knowing they’re right in the middle of their pruning season. We label someone’s wilderness as failure, when God may have led them there on purpose—just as He led His people through the desert.

Real love leaves room for becoming. And faith, true faith, trusts God not only with the harvest but with the dirt, the drought, and the storm.

Your own life may feel like chaos right now. You may not recognize yourself—or your story. But take heart: the season you’re in doesn’t define your future. It’s part of it. Just as winter prepares the ground for spring, this strange and painful chapter may be doing invisible work in your soul.

Let God have His way, even when it looks nothing like you planned.

And let others do the same.

Let us be people who stay soft, not cynical. Let us be gentle with those in the middle of their undoing, and humble enough to admit when we’re in ours. After all, we follow a Savior who rose from what looked like ruin. Surely He can do the same in us.

The seasons are changing. Trust the Gardener.