Being in Season

“There is a seed of God’s love in every event, every circumstance, every unpleasant situation in which you may find yourself.” ~ Barbara Johnson

I departed with the resolution of clearing my muddled head. As I had been quite disappointed about the newspaper that morning, I decided to walk to the end of the road to find the mail box so that I could get it myself in future. Once at the main street, I turned and looked back at Drummond House. It is like a scene out of a movie. It is a grand old farmhouse with soft antiquated features. “ It is too good to be true for me to be here.” I thought as I  tread back up the lawn. Feeling even the slightest bit of belonging to this place blessed my heart. I cut across the orchard again to the church. “I feel like I’m living out a novel,” I thought to myself.  

At the parking lot, I turned down the path towards the back fields. I have seen the fruitless apple trees several times now, but something about them struck me painfully that afternoon. Some weeks back, my father had given me a pocket-sized note book with a red moleskin cover. I started carrying it in my coat so I could jot down descriptions or any other inspired thoughts. Was Sarah Moore affected by Lucy Maud Montgomery growing up? Most certainly! Anne Shirley, eat your heart out! So there, standing on the edge of the orchard, I pulled out my pen and notebook and began to write.

In endless rows, the apple trees twist and contort, writhing in an aching dance, lamenting their barren limbs and the fruit that they have born. Sorrowful skeletons, a few crumpled leaves having clung onto them and the wind rustles through them, rattling them like bones. My heart is touched and I am sad. Anyone who has ever experienced a winter in Southern Ontario knows that, in the absence of snow, the landscape can be very depressing. The healthy shades of nature fade into a pallet of waned hues; everything is stark and bland. The proud stems and stalks of spring and summer have shriveled up, tumbling into a tangled heap of dried grass. Everything has a place in the cycle of life with a time to stop, rest and shed away past seasons, but the crude sight of this saddens me.  At least, when buried under layers of snow, nature can grieve its loss with modesty.

Was I casting my own chagrin on the land that day? or was it depressing me? At this point, the Lord started to leave me signs of scripture to think on.  As I walked along the grassy path, I thought of Ecclesiastes Chapter 3.

“There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.”

I wonder if King Solomon was having a vision of Drummond House in the winter. On reflection, as I read these words, they cast such illumination on everything I saw and felt that afternoon; I feel comforted.

After a few more steps, I stopped on the edge of the cornfield.  A hushed gasp escaped me. The farmers had come and severed the cornstalks leaving 8 inch stubs sticking out of the ground. As I gazed over the slopes, I saw thousands of golden grave markers. It put me in mind of a cemetery for fallen soldiers. 

A time to plant and a time to uproot.

I crossed over the creek and saw a fallen log. It was a tree trunk that had been sawed down. It must have been a grand size for its base diameter was equal to my height. I couldn’t resist stroking the grain of the wood and the rough jagged edges where the tree had been separated from its roots.  Adjacent, there were two large piles of leafy branches removed from the trees. They had been scorched, burned to the colour of charcoal. A time to kill and a time to heal.  A time to tear down and a time to build.

Just before the bridge, I had noticed powdery deposits of copper. I thought that it might be bits of broken pottery, though it seemed like an odd place to find them. Still standing by the tree trunk, I spotted at my feet a mound of soil woven with spidery roots in the mould of a flower pot. It had been burned, too. 

A time to keep and a time to throw away.

“It’s not just me today!” I concluded. “It must be the realities of winter that are bringing me down.” I put my notebook away. I felt pathetic at my sappy thoughts. Dusk was settling, street lights were coming on in the distance. I needed to head back to the house. Then, the Lord brought another verse to my mind from the 42nd Psalm. 

“Why are you downcast, O my Soul? Why so disturbed within me? 

This question is posed twice in verse 5 & 11. That was EXACTLY how I felt.  

Verse 9, “Why must I go about mourning?” 

A time to mourn and a time to dance.

It isn’t ‘till now that I have looked up the verse and now receive my reply:

“Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Saviour and my God.”

I walked back to the house, treading over fallen husks and rotting cobs with these verses running through my brain. “I guess this is my season.” I suppose the the Lord has answered the revolving questions of what am I doing here? with “This is your season, my child.” But He has not left me without hope.

“By day the Lord directs His love, at night His song is with me.” (Psalm 42:8)

At the top of the hill and past a tower of crates, I saw Drummond House with all its lights strung outside and the warm inviting lamps shining brightly through the undressed windows. A beacon of hope glowing the settling dusk of evening. I smiled to myself, “This place is too good to be true.” There was nowhere else I wanted to be than right here. I feel that I must copy out the beginning of Psalm 42 before I stop writing and go for a walk.

As the deer pants for streams of water,

So my soul pants for you, O God.

My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.

When can I go and meet with God?