All summer long, I enjoy my daily run on the country back roads that most cars forget, roads that are relics of a time when reaching point B as fast as possible wasn’t nearly as much of a priority. Day after day, under the dome of the summer sun, I run, feet slapping against the crumbling asphalt, passing the fields whose rusted fences stitch down the roadsides.
In early summer, the fields are newly waking, wildflowers mixing in the fresh springing green. As the solstice passes and the year tilts downhill, they’re riper, grass taller than my knees and tangled like the summer’s thick hair. And then, right here in these slow-dripping last days of summer—when the world is hottest and haziest, when it seems the grass will keep on growing right down to the end of time—haying season begins.
There comes a string of hot days as July melts into mid-August, days with relentless simmering skies and sleeping winds and cicadas stroking their endless song in the tops of the gasping trees. It’s hot enough to make the air squirm above the pavement, hot enough to dull the horizon with haze as if the edges of the world are slowly scorching. And in those searing days, the tractors come, clumsy green dragons rattling down the rutted roads and nosing into the sun-softened pastures. The mowing attachments flare like a spiky pair of wings and the teeth whir and next thing I know, these industrial dragons have roared their way across those heat-bleached fields with breath that smells like diesel and dust and diligence. And after a couple of more days of the earth burning brassy and rain dulling to a blurry memory, the tractors come again—first to rake the grass, and then to roll it into the round richness of late-summer hay.
I saw them early today, as I ran, and I stopped for a moment. What freshness is possible in heat like this was already burning off the morning, and my shirt was sweaty enough to slap wet as I ran. But still I paused in a stingy spot of shade. And above me a cuckoo sang for summer, and ahead heat-swollen clouds tumbled topheavy through the glaring sky, and all before me across the short-shaved fields were those round bales—like mysterious wheels, ready to roll forward into fall, but still with summer stashed inside.
I’ll keep seeing them, in the weeks ahead. I’ll see other fields being cut and other bales being bound and every so often a pickup will lurch past me with a clattering trailer stacked high with the wonderful wheels, and I’ll catch the faint aroma of the summer’s last wish. And as I see them, I remember something I so easily forget: seasons change, and I must be ready.
You see, it’s nearly impossible to think about fall right now, in the heat and the haze and the sweat that stings salt in my eyes as I run. And somehow it’s easy to slip into the half-asleep idea that summer will somehow last forever. That the season I’m in is the only one that exists. But a single glance at the round bales, and I’m blinking back awake, and there where the thermometer mercury is almost boiling and the clouds just won’t drop rain and even the cuckoo sounds tired, I’m remembering, I’m seeing what these farmers testify to: fall will come. It’s even now on the way.
Isn’t that true in our own lives?
Some sort of innate spiritual gravity pulls us like stones, and we splash and sink into moments in a way that drowns our power of perspective. We pass through a trial, and we’re convinced it will never end. We enter a season, and suddenly it stretches from horizon to horizon. We dwell in a moment, and it becomes the definition of our lives. Summer is here, and the heat presses down, and we can’t believe anything else will come.
But then we are awakened. A song. A friend. A book. A verse. A miracle. A prayer. A chance.
A hay bale.
And for a single clear-sighted instant—as clear-sighted as we creatures of dust and doubt can ever be—we see it, the turning of the seasons. This will not last. The new will break in. Look, it is coming even now.
I’m reminded of Jesus’ words to the religious leaders. Frustrated with their inability to recognize His true identity—to see beyond the moment that hailed Him as nothing more than a wonder-working prophet—He uttered words in which we can almost hear the groan: “When evening comes, you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red,’ and in the morning, ‘Today it will be stormy, for the sky is red and overcast.’ You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times” (Matthew 16:2b-3 ESV).
I read these words, and I picture a different crowd—the rural farmers in my area. I imagine them squinting at that unforgiving sky, marking days on a crinkled calendar, sniffing the wind when it rises from the west. I envision them tinkering with their tractors, counting their stock, rubbing the rough tips of grass between their fingers and following the field with deep-thinking eyes. All summer, they’ve done this, haven’t they? They’ve watched the weather and counted the days and planned the haying. Why? Because they can see beyond this season. And even now, far from the equinoctial rains and the shortening sunlight, they’re already planning for the next one.
May we have that kind of view. May we not be so immersed in the moment that we live our lives head-down. And may our perception of the weather and the calendar never outweigh our perception of spiritual seasons in our lives.
So how do we make this a reality in our own souls?
First—a bit paradoxically—we look at the present. Knowing that change will come and planning wisely for what will arise isn’t permission to skip past or rush through the moment we are currently living. Instead, we commit ourselves to dwelling with grace and intention in whatever season we’ve been placed, while at the same time acknowledging the change that will come.
Secondly, we look at the past. While some things will always be a mystery to our finite minds, often the perspective of months or years can offer a glimpse at the pattern of our lives. Looking at the fabric of the past—the lessons we’ve learned, the truths God has shown us, the decisions we’ve made, and the seasons we’ve already passed through—offers us not only the best clues about what is to come but also helps us see the thread of God’s work in our lives and follow the arc of His story in our hearts.
Then, and only then, we look to the future. And this isn’t a worry-filled construction of imagined disasters or a hyper-focused vigilance against what all could go wrong. Instead, it’s a special type of grace. We hold open our hands and loosen our grip on what has come before. And then we wait fearlessly for the next season to which God will call us, trusting that His leading is perfect.
And that’s the true thread, isn’t it—the thought I hold close to my heart as I run down these patient old country roads. Yes, the seasons will change. Yes, the summer will end. Yes, those haybales in the stubbled fields point to a time that will come faster than I expect. But through every shifting season, I can wait with an open heart—trusting in the God Who stands outside of all time, and declaring with the Psalmist, “My times are in Your hand” (Psalm 31:15 NKJV).