I’ve never previously expressed this in writing, but perhaps these reflections on “seasons and hope” will resonate with and encourage others:

While every season has its own particular visual beauty, the one that feels best to my physical being is fall. As the summer heat fades into more moderate temperatures, I enjoy the reprieve from outdoor chores and the resulting slower pace. Never a self-thought outdoorsman, I actually don’t mind retreating inward, shutting the windows and doors to stave off the crisp evening air or feeling the weight of an extra blanket on my bed. 

But along with the Libra sun, autumn has historically brought melancholy upon me. I can’t say exactly why, other than perhaps it has something to do with a sense of passing or loss – the passing of summer’s vibrancy and the soon-to-be backward glance at another year gone. 

As a single, childless man, I have lots of opportunity for introspection (which has its pros and cons), but there’s something about fall that causes that to heighten. This, paired with my hopeless sentimentalism, can even usher me into a semi-state of mourning, which can occasionally lend itself to a bit of weepiness.

Although most memories make me glad, they can also be bittersweet, especially when I consider that I can never relive the childhood I enjoyed so much with its carefree, innocent days filled with imagination and play, and I can never again sit at the dinner table with my grandparents in their homes, which are now inhabited by others. 

I often pass by the houses of childhood neighbors who are no longer there – family friends who you could call and count on and who would buy candy from me during elementary school fundraisers and from whom I would collect candy at Halloween. 

The high school I attended has been razed, and when I view the vacant lot where it once stood, I am sobered by the fact that all the events that transpired there endure only in the memories of those who lived it. 

I know not everyone has or had a great childhood or family, friends, and neighbors, and for that I am truly sorry. I loved mine and recognize the blessing of it. The fact that I have loved and been loved explains why the memory of these things brings such longing. 

Of course, there is a difference in being “seasonally” washed over with a tidal wave of memories and emotions versus being consumed or sidelined by them. My faith better informs the situation, and as the Apostle Paul wrote to encourage the Thessalonian Church: “…you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope.” 

I know in Whom I believe and hope, and that makes not only a season of difference, but a world and eternity of one!