Seasons

Years ago, I worked at a mental health agency as a case manager, and I met a lovely woman in the same department. She was several years older than I was, yet she was remarkably down-to-earth, someone you warmed up to right away. She was always willing to help; I never hesitated to ask questions because I knew she would gladly take the time to guide me.

As we got to know each other, we discovered how similar our lives were. We had both been married for over twenty years. Our sons were the same age, and, unbelievably, they both attended the same high school. Over time, we bonded over the funny minor irritations that come with being married for so long. One day, we were both scrolling through apartment listings online, swearing up and down that we were moving out on our own, even though we both knew we wouldn’t.

Our department had one of those rare groups of co-workers who got along and enjoyed each other’s company. During that stretch, some Fridays after work, we’d all meet at a restaurant near the office for drinks and conversation. Even after we all left that job for other agencies, she and I kept in touch, going out to eat whenever life allowed.

It was comforting to confide in someone who understood my circumstances. My family was going through challenges with my son, who is autistic, and of course, she was facing challenges of her own. Still, most of the time, our conversations circled back to married life.

Our friendship lived in small, steady acts of support. I gave her a reference when she needed one, and she advised me when I had questions about day programs. At one point, we even talked about starting a business together.

Looking back, the connection probably could have remained intact if we’d both had more time and energy to invest in it, but work demands and family responsibilities pulled us in different directions.

Then she lost her husband.

By then it had been a year and a half since we’d last spoken. The news devastated me the moment I heard it, and I hesitated before reaching out. I didn’t want to show up in her life only because tragedy had found its way there, but this deserved acknowledgment, even after the silence. It turned my thoughts toward the seasons life carries us through.

People come into our lives for reasons we don’t always understand in the moment. Some stay for decades. Others walk beside us for only a few months or a few years. Yet the impact they leave doesn’t disappear simply because the relationship ends.

She never needed the backstory. We could talk about a long marriage without pretending it was perfect: you can love your spouse and still let them work your nerves, or be grateful for the life you built together and still wonder who you are outside of it.

I think about those conversations we had, laughing and sharing stories of family life, believing that tomorrow would still look much like today.

That’s the sobering part: how quickly life can change. The ordinary moments we hardly notice while we’re living them eventually become memories. We never know when a lunch date, a phone call, or a conversation with our spouse will be the last.

I believe that the seasons of life, love, and friendship intend to teach us that. Not simply that these things eventually end, but that we should live in the moment and treasure the people we love while we can.

Even the companions from the past become a part of our story; we carry pieces of them with us even as they continue writing their own chapters without us.

Sometimes we regret how things ended; other times, we’re just grateful for the lessons the experience taught us. Perhaps that is enough.