It’s gloomy out today in West Michigan. Wet strong winds and dark clouds cover the sky and the smell of the cool autumn air surrounds me as I walk. It’s a usual fall Michigan day, the precursor to the dreaded bitter winter, especially after the beautiful white snow ceases to fall from the same clouds and melts half-heartedly, leaving patches of dirt and grass in its absence.
I can remember always despising that time of winter, when there’s nothing new happening in late January and February, with barely anything to look forward to but springtime in the weeks and weeks ahead. It kind of feels like the year we’ve had — stale, waiting for change, waiting to be excited for something new ahead. Always looking forward, never feeling the weight of the gift of now.
When I lost my good friend Corban in the summer, it took me on an unexpected journey. Memories of our time together were on constant replay in my mind, and they so often continue to interrupt my daily thought. I had come to realize that, of course, it wasn’t what we achieved that I remembered and have looked back on with such adoration, it was doing life together in every moment, especially the heartbreaking and stale seasons. See, that's the fabric of this life.
I have no regrets, yet if I could tell myself something many seasons ago: I wish I had been less distracted by the discomfort or weariness I felt in the moment and had become über-aware of the blessings I had in front of me — the presence of my friend and the quality time of simply being with him.
So today, I don’t mind the rain, the snow, or the wind, nor the discomfort or dull season. I stand in it and welcome it, knowing that I may not understand its importance until I am no longer in it.