When Seasons Change: How To Seek Joy on the Other Side of the Precipice
By: Grace Moody
I hate change. I facetiously believe my soul, made in the image of God, was created for consistency and the eternal nature of heaven. God never changes, therefore, surely nothing ought to for me. I struggle to find any joy in change. How can I delight in life when nothing is familiar?
Hillsdale, Michigan. Sunrise. A typical Thursday in February.
As on every typical Thursday in February I was sitting in a living room with fuzzy blankets and wool socks. There was oatmeal in a blue Dutch oven. There were raisins, brown sugar, cream, coffee, and tea. I was not alone. Sweatpants and messy buns and unmade faces, I sat in community with dear friends and a sweet mentor blinking bleary eyes and smiling sleepy smiles and lifting weary hearts as we fellowshipped together, praying with and encouraging one another, at the breaking of the day. The golden glow of sunrise would fade, and we all would return to campus for the true starting of the day. I knew such mornings could not carry on forever, but two years later I was surprised that as quickly as the golden light would thin into day, so had those days slipped away.
Perhaps you, dear friend, have weathered a season change: you stand on the other side of a broad precipice. You look back and see the gulf between “here” and “there.” “There,” is familiar—the colors, the sounds, the tastes. You see yourself “there,” laughing, full of life and joy. Then, you look around “here.” It is new, unknown. You have no names for these colors, all tastes are unfamiliar, you do not know these sounds. You are in a strange new land.
Columbia, South Carolina. Sunset. An average Wednesday in February.
I lay on my bed. Alone. The bed was large—much larger than the small twin size I had until I was married—and I could flop my whole self across it in moments of dejection. My work shoes, yet to be removed, pinched my heels. My dress—though fresh that morning—was rumpled, slightly smelly, and sported a stain produced by a fifth-grade student attempting to open their yogurt pouch at lunch. The curtains blew in the southern breeze, cooling the hot tears on my cheeks. I was situated on the other side of the great things that young people do—moving across the country, starting a new job, getting married. Yet, I cried. This new place was entirely foreign. That particular night, I was there on my phone, scrolling apartment listings in Hillsdale, Michigan. South Carolina was the worst; take me back to where my life was good. Take me back to the last familiar landmark, the final lamppost at the edge of my wilderness.
I do not know what the gulf is between “here” and “there” for you. Perhaps graduating high school and venturing onto college. Perhaps it is a tragedy that sharply creates a canyon of before and after. Perhaps it is simply the passage of time that somehow floats you from the innocent Western Heritage scholar to the senior scrambling to have a job, roommate or ring, and all your ducks neatly in a row. Whatever the gulf, is not “there” seemingly so much more desirable? It is familiar. Surely, if only I could wear those clothes, walk those paths, see those friends, live in that place, I would be happy. I cannot make my home “here,” I must get back “there.”
What a crushing blow to realize our own mortality. If we could simply take off these earthly bonds, perhaps we could inhabit the best of moments forever. Yet we are mortal. All too soon, the best of the moments pass. The world keeps going; we keep going. The world keeps changing; we keep changing. The places of the past have no room for you now.
In this land of the new and uncertain, you must orient yourself to where you are now. This is not simply done. You are in a new land, you do not speak the language, you do not know the customs. You cannot pretend to have it all figured out. In fact, you cannot even try to have it all figured out. You must simply set about creating the familiar. There are two parts to this. First, there is the intention. Then, there is the perception.
First, you must intend to do something. The particular thing frankly does not matter too much. What matters is the doing of that thing, regularly, with intention. Weave it into the fabric of your life until you can call it by name. What I mean is this: build a habit. When you do a thing time and again, you create a path of familiarity wherever you are. In the land where all is uncertain, this thing you do know. You know the rhythm of morning coffee made just so, or the ritual of watering flowers in the afternoon, or routine of washing your face before bed. Pick one thing, do it until you know it and it has become a beacon of regularity in your otherwise chaotic, unanchored life. When one rhythm is mastered, add another.
As you create small pathways of familiarity, some of the mist around you will clear. There will be a few recognizable landmarks. This is now where you must also exercise your perception. Pay the utmost of attention. What do you pass each day on your commute? What is the process of doing laundry like here? What is your most natural morning routine? Strive to recognize the rhythms around you that are slowly ordering themselves, that you may orient yourself. This is not flashy. This is the meat and potatoes of life—save your sprinkles and cake for seasons of feasting and flourishing. This is joy hard won by faithful simplicity. This joy is a choice, not to arbitrarily be happy, but to choose to persevere in the minutiae, that your soul may have space to smile again.
And someday, likely sooner than you think, the newness will wear off, the uncertainty will evaporate, and you will know your way to the grocery store and back without your GPS. Going to bed at night, you will have an idea of how the next morning will look. Likely, you will even have friends to ask how their weekend plans turned out. It will again feel quite a bit like normal. And with normal, there will again be space for picnics and popsicles and all the beauty and joy and delight that tend to inhabit life when we are in seasons of flourishing and familiarity. But you only get there through the unseen building blocks of daily faithfulness.
Columbia, South Carolina. Twilight. A particular Friday night.
We were in the backyard with bubbles floating on the breeze. The fire crackled, the Edison lights above created a canopy of golden light in the treetops. A warm smattering of voices lifted in jubilant chorus in the evening air, “Happy Birthday…” My little toddling girl in her high chair beamed in the glow of the candlelight on her teeny tiny cake. Friends, dear and new, gathered in our backyard that night bringing chili and warm wassail and helping hands to celebrate our sweet little one. There was chatter and laughter and pieces of banana cake cut far too large. They rejoiced with us, alongside us, at the growth of one little life over the course of one long year. As the candles flickered and the singing voices came to a close, my heart nearly burst at the sweetness of such fellowship shared on a back lawn on a November evening. Who would have thought I would have found home in the South Carolina city I was certain I would forever hate? The moment stands as a testament of glory—of a God who is a God of the small things, the little things that ground us in all our uncertainty, preparing us for a future home where there will be no passing shadows or changing tides.
He is faithful; like Him, be faithful.
Grace Moody | ‘22
My name is Grace Moody and I am a free-spirited adventurer with a spice for life lived with intentionality. I am wife and mother currently residing in Tallahassee, Florida and I work as an executive function coach training students in organization, task management, and goal-setting. You will often find me doing breakfast picnics in the park or driving to the nearest natural spring with an iced coffee in hand. I make time for creating with wood and with words in the margins of life.
