I once stood overlooking a forest in Glacier National Park sorely disappointed. This particular area looked nothing like the pictures I saw when planning our trip to Montana for our 15th wedding anniversary. The trees had sustained damage from a wildfire and what was left of them was nothing but gray bark and a few lonely branches.
Whomp whomp.
Our tour guide stood before us as if we should be amazed, but I couldn’t understand why any of us followed her off the bus. The guide explained to us that there had been a wildfire and as a result, new growth was coming. The affected trees, called lodgepole pines, have seeds protected by resin inside the pine cones. The seeds are only released when the temperatures are hot enough to melt the resin. The National Park Service says fire is essential to the growth of a forest. Maybe that’s not news to you, but it made me think.
I had never considered a wildfire to be beneficial. Fire is destructive and damaging. But that day I learned without a fire, resin would not melt, seeds would not fall, and new growth would not occur.
Nearly five years ago, God removed my family and I from a place that was filled with a lot of good things. Holy things. He used this place and its people to mold us, teach us, and create in us a desire for gospel-centered community. The evidence of His work in us, through us, and around us was clear and we were in the midst of a really good season in our lives, spiritually speaking. We felt rich and full because of all He was doing, even though we dealt with some really difficult trials during this time. After seven years of this vibrant season, He called us away from that place. Leaving felt like death, but we trusted Him with excitement for what was coming.
We quickly discovered what was ahead had not even a hint of the same vibrance we once enjoyed, even though we were living much closer to family. We experienced the death of my husband’s father, struggled to find a church we could call home, and discovered that deep friendships were seemingly out of reach. We had a few friends, but there was an absence of connecting on a deeper level. The most we knew about anyone was how their week was going—and everyone always has a good week when you never move beyond the surface. Without realizing it, occasional loneliness, bitterness, and anger became our friend and I began to ask God on a consistent basis why He removed all the good from us.
While on a walk one day I felt certain God was getting my attention through the lyrics of a Ben Rector song. In “Living My Best Life” Rector says, “I’m learning how to eat the fruit that is in season.” I realized I was growing discontent and bitter because the fruit that was in season was not what I had a taste for. I wanted the season to change. I wanted deep friendships, community, shared joys and sufferings, to know people and be known–all the good things I no longer had. But, what if loneliness was in season? This realization liberated me from my striving to leave this season. He didn’t rush in and rescue me out of anything. Instead, He walks with me as I stay where I am.
Wishing for peaches when you’ve been handed an apple only makes the apple bitter.
The wise Elisabeth Elliot once said, “The taking up of the cross is not going to be something heroic or dramatic or enviable. It’s going to be a daily practice of acceptance of small duties which you really don’t like.” The fires of our lives run a large spectrum of circumstances. They can be the events that draw attention, like death or cancer, or they can be the daily events that are small and unseen by others. Either way, the pivotal point is accepting the season, no matter how dry, painful, or lonely. What other choice do we have? Wishing for peaches when you’ve been handed an apple only makes the apple bitter. Accepting the apple might not make it taste sweet, but it can envelop the temporary bitterness with everlasting joy.
Through fire, the lodgepole pine that seems dead is being prepared for new growth in the forest. Similarly, our seasons that seem dry and fruitless prepare new growth in us.
If illness is in season, knowing God as healer is the fruit.
If death is in season, the nearness of God is the fruit.
If financial strain is in season, trusting God as provider is the fruit.
If anxiousness about the unknown in season, the peace of God is the fruit.
If loneliness is in season, friendship with God is the fruit.
What if the guaranteed fruit from any season is the joy produced by a content heart settled to receive what God gives?
I’m still learning how to eat the fruit that is in season.