Seasons come and go, each robed in its own rare majesty as decreed from the very hand of God. There is nothing more predictable in the seen, knowable world than their tiring revolution, fall to winter, winter to spring, spring to summer, repeating endlessly on a glorious loop. There is nothing more predictable in the seen, knowable world, perhaps other than death. Even our Savior was subjected to that infernal transformation all those thousands of years ago when he was known as the ringleader of the Nazarene sect. Death is no respecter of persons.

But a season of love had come into my life, a season of joy, a matrimonial union so vibrant and beautiful it brought on its heels the most tender of all blessings—two to be exact. Yes, first there was love—and then there was hatred. Love I found was fickle, untrustworthy, devoted to its own glorification. You pour yourself out for love, you feed it, you heed and ultimately, embarrassingly you need it. Love always holds the sharpest knife to threaten you with. Love doesn’t disappoint to make good on its threats, slicing your heart in two—watching you bleed out is simply another of its attributes. Hatred is far simpler. It fuels itself. It adulates you in all your tarnished glory. It creates a membrane between you and the target of your ill affection. It nurses your wounds, whispers the lies you crave to hear. It sprinkles a crown of ashes over your head and declares you the king. But ultimately, hatred is the cheapest balm—an illusionary fix. When all is said and done, it covers you with the dust of shame before reminding you that what your heart desires still lingers just out of reach. It is what you truly crave—love—the indestructible crown fashioned from the hand of God Himself.

Lies spread before us like an open road, our feet embedded with the thorns of our indiscretion. The liars rule the earthen sphere and we are the liars, for even the angels are subject to reproach. While we distract ourselves with the minutia of everyday life, the enemy walks us deeper into the valley of the shadow of death—fashioning his scepter for ruling. While we looked lovingly into one another’s eyes, the dragon’s tail swept us up with its broom of destruction. Unknowingly, unwittingly, we have submitted to this ritual of darkness. Wickedness struggles to empty what we stand for and who we are under its submission. There is nothing new under the sun, even this treachery. And now, here we are, where the future meets the past, the agony of our new reality.

And then there is death—the curse that comes to all. It waits in patience for the time prescribed before striking with its sickle, reaping its harvest with a righteous bloodlust all its own. One moment you are here, and in less than that you are no more. Some say you go to the light. Some say you are enveloped in darkness. Both are correct in their estimations, for the believer goes one way, the infidel the next. Your time in the Transport is a wink, a microsecond—your destiny already sealed upon your departure. Not every soul lands on the emerald green lawn of the Elysian fields. Those who choose not to believe in the Son are chased from this planet by unspeakable terrors. Darkness waits eagerly for them, a horror of heat and destitution, only to land them in a realm where hope is a dream long out of reach. All is lost and they are not saved.

It seems that those in power always have a son they would very much like to venerate, that they believe should and by their might will be worshiped. Oh, what a treasure to be that shining son for all to see—the might, the power, all majesty and creation laid upon his feet. Those in power always seem to have that precious son, and in all of the ironies that life could afford, I had married one, the son of horrors, the son of the black-hearted chief of the Fems.

We were light and dark, good and evil, partaking of the fruit of one another so liberally we thought we could be unified as one. How naïve it is to believe that light could convert the darkness. How myopic to have thought my heart was the cure, my love the elixir to this tenacious disease. How sweet the boast would have been.

But the heart is where life truly lies. What you believe is as incriminating as it is liberating. It can hold you back. It can mold your destiny, sometimes in nefarious ways. God Himself understands how cheap the words that leave our mouths can be. He tests us. And once He doles out the exam, He is quiet. Like a good schoolmaster, He waits patiently while we navigate the briar patch set before us, the untamable wilderness. We feel so alone, so abandoned. We come to our end. How we crave our personal Egypt, the source of our once misery. How we look back with fondness upon that time of agony—never was there a greater sorrow than that moment. And yet we are never without Him. He waits, watches, inspects the depths of our heart. He searches the unknowable reaches and lays them bare, brushes His fingers over the nexus of our being. He never leaves us, never forsakes us, never lets us fall. He is the lover, the lifter of our souls. He strengthens us through familial bonds. Guides us by day like a cloud—lights up the darkness in pillars of fire. He is our comforter, and, if we are wise, we nestle in the shelter of His wings until disaster has passed. For the things that are seen are temporary. Those that are unseen, eternal. Mortality will be swallowed up by life.

But ultimately, on occasion terribly, there is a time and season for everything. A time to be born—and a time to die. What happens in between is the gift. The seasons are stubbornly never-ending, but our lives are but a whisper in the grand scheme of things. Time is but a stranger in our lives—we only notice it upon reflection. But we bear the weight of its arrogance with each breath we take. We lumber forward in its shadow, numbering our days according to its whims. We are the victims of its callous design. Our faces etching a story across the arc of its measurements. We strive to stretch its fabric across the span of ten decades. But even the wise, the learned, the righteous cannot command it to heel. Your days are numbered, your steps determined by an Almighty hand with an Almighty design, outlined for you before you were ever knit in your mother’s womb. The first day and the last each carefully orchestrated to help you achieve your purpose. But people waver. Destiny is malleable within the realm of free will. And with that a self-made disaster looms around every precious corner. But ultimately, sovereignly, fate will undeniably right itself. Try as you might, fail as you will, succeed if you can, burn under the fire of your own sun—fate will find you, chase you down, make you its own. In the end, as stubbornly as the seasons come and go, you too will fulfill your purpose. And finally, when the silver cord is broken, the spirit severed from the body, you will find that ultimately what was revealed ages ago was true—the end is truly the beginning. It will happen to us all—just you wait and see.