Author: lindsay

seasons

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The leaves on the tree that fills my living room window are slowly changing. Little specks of yellow are dancing around in the green before they gently float their way to rest on the ground three stories down.

It may still be in the 90’s, but signs that the season is changing are all around. The days are slowly getting shorter, Starbucks is selling pumpkin spice lattes, weekends are filled with football and the longing in my heart to wear boots and a scarf is growing larger.

Seasons change.

It’s one of those things about this life we live that we have no control over. We can’t stop the leaves from turning, or the freezing air from chilling our face. Flowers will bloom again, and the summer sun will  heat the air. And just as you start to believe it will never get cold again, you notice leaves falling.

The change is welcomed by some, hated by others, and walked through by all.

I’m not really a winter girl. Sure, I like to get cozy by a fire and drink hot chocolate. I like visiting my family in Philadelphia for the holidays and seeing actual snow. I like the sting on my cheeks when I step outside. And then about a month of that passes, and I’m ready for it to end. I’m ready for sunshine,  longer days, and swimsuits.

Despite my preference, the seasons change when they will.  I’ve currently walked through 24 winters, and no amount of despising the cold will keep that number from climbing one notch each year.

Life is a set of seasons. Some are filled with joy and freedom. The ones that make you feel like you’re on top of a mountain and can see for miles. Others are filled with broken hearts and lack of sleep. With days when it takes every ounce of energy and discipline to get out of bed.

Regardless of the season you’re in, there’s one thing you can count on: it will not always be like this.

For those of you in a hard season, those are sweet words. For those in a joyful season, sobering ones.

More and more I’m learning to accept the seasons as they come, and quit striving to control and change things I have no authority over. The season I’m in right now- the community we have, a steady job, writing more, being newly married – I’m not sure when it will end, but once it’s over my life will never again be exactly like it is right now.

I don’t want next summer to arrive only to discover that I missed out on fall, winter and spring. I want to live my life- every emotion, sound, taste, sight and experience. The crazy times and the peaceful ones- I want to engage with my life, to claim the season I’m in right now as exactly right. To spend my energy being present instead of exhausting myself by living in my dreams.

For me, this summer was a slow, calm season. Our calendars were pretty open. We took vacations, and spent many nights at home with no agenda. We went to bed early because we could. With the change of seasons, I can feel the hustle and bustle trying to overtake the calm. Our schedules are filling up, dinner is a shorter affair, we’re waking up earlier and going to sleep later.

The lessons of summer, of that slower time, are not lost. No instead, they are necessary for this next season. I find myself walking into the fall with a fresh perspective- one that says it’s ok to slow down, to rest. One that doesn’t define my worth by how productive or busy I am, but by the condition of my heart.

I’m walking into fall thankful- for the season that just ended and how it accomplished just what it needed to in my heart, for the season we’re stepping into and all the unknown that it holds.

*photo by the awesome, kate stafford

family

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After experiencing Chicago, I made my way down to St. Louis to see some family.

Three sisters, to be exact.

The four of us make an unlikely combo. Peggy is a hipster with a touch of southern girl attending seminary. Laira is a full-bred Puerto Rican with an incredible mind who is in her first year at Wash U. Marly is Puerto Rican by blood, with a little Texas culture mixed in. She loves high heels and Twitter more than anyone else I know. And then there’s me- highly introverted, but deep down thrives on taking risks and adventure.

The common denominator for all of us is Puerto Rico, and our time there from September 2010 to May 2011. 

Our lives crossed at different points in a span of nine months. I met Peggy on a muggy September night hours after I arrived to the island. I was there working for Young Life, and Peggy was the nanny for a family I would soon become dear friends with. I met Laira the summer before- she was one of the first students from Puerto Rico that went to Young Life camp. We reunited in Puerto Rico that fall as we started Young Life club for the first time. Marly and I met that following spring after God led the area director of Young Life to the Pottery Barn where Marly worked on his day off. Marly and I began meeting together while she was going through training to become a volunteer YL leader. During that time, she was introduced to Peggy. 

As I was preparing to leave Puerto Rico, I asked Peggy to reach out to Marly. We had been hanging out a lot and I didn’t want to leave her high and dry. They became great friends. Meanwhile, Marly became a YL leader and began developing a close friendship with Laira.

Now, two years later, Peggy is in seminary in St. Louis and Laira is in her first year at Wash U. Marly is still in Puerto Rico volunteering with Young Life, and I’m in Austin working at an ad agency.

Last weekend, as we were driving around St. Louis together, Peggy told Laira this:

Laira, we’re going to be hanging out a lot. I want you to know that. And I want you to know that Lindsay and Marly didn’t ask me to do this. They didn’t have to. When I heard you were moving to St. Louis I just knew this is what I needed to do. 

We are family in the deepest sense of the word.

No matter who is where, we’re going to make sure that our sister is taken care of, that she’s surrounded by people who care about her, that she has somewhere to go when she has questions. or just needs rest. That’s what the family of Christ does for each other. We bear each others burdens, we step in to help when others have to step away.

We were made to live in community. We are not irreplaceable in our current roles, and that’s how it’s meant to be. Sometimes we step in for a season and carry others, and other times we’re the ones who need to be carried.

I’m thankful for this little group of sisters that I get to be a part of, for how they’ve taught me to accept love instead of trying to earn it, for being a picture of what the family of God looks like. We love, not because we expect something in return, but simply because we’re family. 

the fog

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My alarm woke me at 6:15 am. I crept down off the top bunk in my room at a Chicago hostel, trying to not wake my roommates as I fumbled around for my clothes in the dark. I headed down the stairs, my excitement grew- I was in Chicago, a place I had been dreaming about visiting for years. And my first stop was to watch the sun rise over the beautiful blue water of Lake Michigan, that I knew was less than a mile to the east.

As I walked out the door of my hostel, I was met with a seemingly unfortunate reality.

Fog.

And not the type of fog that looks like it will burn off once the sun comes up. It was thick, and misty and had no appearance of clearing up anytime soon.

But since I knew the general direction of the lake, I began heading that way- navigating as far ahead as the fog would allow.

Chicago is waking up all around me. I pass businessmen heading to work clutching a cup of steaming coffee, the homeless stirring from their park benches, headlights of those who want to beat rush hour reflecting off the mist, as the roar of the subway thunders above my head. Signs of life are all around me, and I try not to miss them in the fog. 

I continue walking towards the wall of grey haze that I knew to be the lake. It’s an uneasy feeling- intentionally walking into a place you can not see, a place you’ve never been and have no reference for. But I kept walking- partly because I was clinging to the hope that the fog would clear; mostly because I had no do-over.

This was my day in Chicago. There was no tomorrow, or next week or month. I had one day, and I was determined to make the most of it. To take what came as a gift because I didn’t have time to regret or complain or wish it were different.

As I walked farther east, I began to hear a new sound. The roar of the city faded and was replaced by a chiming melody. Intrigued, I continued walking and soon began to see tall silhouettes emerge from the foggy mist. As I reached the lakefront’s edge, the sailboats serenaded me as they rocked in the morning breeze. I stopped to take them in for a moment, enjoying my own private concert.

It was eerily moving. The grey clouds shifting in and out of the sails, making the masts visible one minute and taking them away the next. The fog held a certain power, a certain authority- masking my ability to see to the horizon, blocking the sun. Yet it did so quietly, peacefully. The unknown carries with it a stillness, a mystery with no need to explain itself. It demands a trust. 

The fog holds its own style of elegance, of charm, seen by those who learn to rest in it instead of fight against it. 

Most days, I just want clarity. I want to see to the horizon, to have an idea of what’s coming next. I believe that if I could just see, if I could just know that beauty lies beyond today, it would give me strength to  move forward, to press on. 

Yet most days, my life doesn’t look like a clear sun rise over the sparkling waters of Lake Michigan. Instead, it’s much like the foggy morning- taking steps of faith toward what I believe to be true but cannot see. It’s opening my eyes to the small signs of life around me, and embracing the unknown as beautiful in itself. 

It’s learning to hear the music in the midst of the fog.