Last week a dear friend and Marble parishioner was in my office, and we were catching up on our summers and what the fall had in store for us. I confess I gravitate with annual regularity into the rhythm, one that beckons to body, mind and soul, that says: Hey, it's fall… new school year, new projects, new energy, new fill-in-the-blank.
It was easier, sort of, when you were automatically promoted - say, from 6th to 7th grade. Your new container, like it or not, was a given. Now, we are on our own timetables, with all the vagaries of lives that do not follow any calendar's dictates.
I know that intellectually - that the seasons are an outer construct, and my innards will do what they will do when they will do it - but it's hard not to feel the pull, and to think there is something wrong with you if you are not brimming with newness in September. Kind of like worrying there's something amiss if you don't feel particularly resurrection-oriented the day after Easter.
Which is why I was so taken with something my friend said in our meeting. She reminded me that we plant now, in the fall, for spring. "Plant" as in bury the seed's promise; trust the dark, gestational time; water with care and, most important, wait. With roots as an urban person, I find even a humble seed catalogue deeply baffling, on a par with advanced calculus textbooks. But my spirit knew good agricultural news when it heard it. I needed, and was quietly thrilled by, her reminder. Perhaps the call is to take the first steps on my new ideas and projects, trusting that they will happen over time, and with prayerful cultivation, not impatience.
May you look at your own September times to plant. May you think of what it is you can seed now for future cultivation. An idea, a resolve, a hope, a new way to be in relationship… with friend, family, self or God.
And keep in mind that the Bible has two words for time: "Chronos," which is all about the clock and calendar and precision; and the more mysterious "Kairos" which means "fullness of time," or "God's time." Our newness tends to come in kairos time: not automatic, sometimes even unwelcome change, but always our own.