Seasons

Autumn finally came to Phoenix last week; it took its own sweet time getting here. Even by southern Arizona standards, this summer proved remarkably hot, and the hard-won nip in the morning air stirred an almost audible sigh of relief across the sprawling Valley of the Sun.

Growing up here, I’m largely acclimated to the vagaries of the desert seasons, but my wife was raised at higher altitudes. She still grows wistful at the thought of more predictable changes in the temperatures, more dependable dates for falling leaves and budding flowers, more regular recurrences of rainbows and lightning shows.

But the breezes of fall finally came again, to cool the earlier evenings for trick-or-treaters, and the Diamondbacks’ faltering efforts to win the Series. My wife’s mood was sufficiently lifted by the change that she took it upon herself to teach me how to carve jack-o-lanterns – something that, in all my long life, ‘ve never learned to do.

One thing I have learned – and been reminded of recently – is that some seasons of life have naught to do with the weather … yet come around almost as regularly, marking the shortening years with milestones of mortality, as we hike on toward eternity.

Three weekends ago came the birth of little Presley. She was 58 hours, making her way from womb to the open air. A harrowing journey, for one of her tender months of existence … and a grueling one for her mother, writhing in the throes of a dream coming true.

And yet, like the rest of us, Presley will have no recall of her rough entry into orbit, once memories begin to gain their tenuous foothold on her mind. Any more than young Merryn, born on the eve of Hallowed Eve, will remember all the excitement of an arrival so hurried she appeared at home, rather than the hospital. (Some trick-or-treaters always show up a little early.)

Their moms and dads, ecstatic and exhausted, embrace their whole new reason for existence – a breath of spring that, if they’re lucky, will breathe in their souls forever, in some small way, every time they think of that child. And with the miracle, too, comes something heavier … the weight of a responsibility they will feel, as long as their child draws breath.

Presley's grandfather, a friend of mine, told me of visiting – long before she was ever imagined – the church where her parents will soon be dedicating her. On that day, a year ago, a delighted young father raised his newborn son for all to see. This week, my friend happened to visit the church again. He found a congregation subdued in grief, and the young father aged, overnight, beyond recognition. A few days ago, they pulled his one-year-old from the backyard pool.

Just like that, winter came to a man’s life. There may come a thaw, and someday, the sun may shine again. But in some part of his broken soul, the cold winds will always blow.

Two weeks ago, I stood at a hot outdoor altar with a young man I’ve known all of his life. He survived, somehow, the dangerous waters of youth, but by early manhood was in way over his head. One bad choice at a time, the temptations of life had engulfed him, and he was sinking fast into the bottomless depths.

But, in the words of that great old hymn, love lifted him. Through the sorely tested compassion of his family, the countless prayers of friends, and the unfathomable mercies of God, he was miraculously spared, renewed, and transformed. And now stood before his chosen bride – healthy again, whole again – speaking simply, eloquently of things he’s come so very far to understand.

Sacrifice. Endurance. Commitment.

His was almost a voice from the grave. Many on hand knew enough of resurrection to watch through tears of wonder. And to pray that his summer of love and life will last a long, long time.

Last week, I sat in a memorial service for a longtime friend of our family – a man whose time here was as lengthy and full as that one-year-old baby’s was thin and abbreviated. A slide show offered photo after photo of a beaming youth growing into strong manhood … service in the navy, a Golden Gloves champion, a gifted artist … all the rich and varied aspects of a life lived halfway in the clouds, working with iron and steel, taking surefooted strides across slender beams, looking down from impossible heights.

In between all that, he raised a close-knit, loving Italian family – 43 great-grandchildren, four great-great-grandchildren. The pictures showed a dark-haired man going slowly gray, a happy man in a long, long prime, dancing at weddings and bouncing a long parade of laughing babies on his knee.

In the end, he remembered little of it. The dementia ravaged his memories, as randomly as the autumn winds tear leaves, one by one, from a tree. The stories, the songs, the faces, quietly drifting away.

But some leaves, stubbornly, hold on to the last. To his final day, our friend still knew the tenderness in his gentle wife’s eyes, the familiar sounds of his children’s voices. And the love of the Savior waiting, smiling, to receive him into glory.

The seasons bring their beauty, warm our memories, take their toll. Carving my pumpkin the other night, I marveled at how much must come out, to make way for the light to shine through from within.

It’s so dark out there, now. Long may the light shine – bright may His light shine – in the places made empty. In the places ever full.