Seasons and Reasons — Learning to Let Go, Learning to Grow

Seasons and Reasons — Learning to Let Go, Learning to Grow

If you’ve followed along with my writing for any amount of time, you know by now that I tend to chew on concepts like a cow works through its grass — slowly, thoroughly, sometimes circling back to the same patch even after I thought I’d grazed it clean. Lately, that patch for me has been the concept of seasons and reasons. More specifically, how people come into our lives for one of those — sometimes both — but rarely do they stay for all.

Now, if you're anything like me, and odds are good that you are if you're reading this, you probably try your best in everything you do. That includes relationships of all kinds. Friends, family, business, even those casual connections that somehow turn into late-night conversations about life, faith, and the deep-down stuff we pretend doesn’t matter… but absolutely does.

And with that tendency to lean in, to give your best, I bet you also carry another "gift" — the ability to see the best in people. Even when they are at their worst. It's almost a superhuman ability. You see that trapped version of themselves inside — the version that could be, would be, maybe even wants to be… if only they weren’t tangled up in their own junk.

And so, with that hopeful lens, when I choose to let someone into my life, really let them in, it is not something I take lightly. I’m a long-term guy. It’s how I’m wired. I don’t dabble. I don’t do temporary. Even the so-called “surface” relationships eventually lean deep if I stick around long enough — that’s just how I love. I lean in, I stay in, and I stick around when most others drift out.

But here’s where the hard truth lands: not everyone is wired like me. Not everyone is supposed to stay. Some people — maybe most people — are only meant to walk with us for a season. And sometimes, that reason they came? Well, it takes a while to reveal itself. And if you're stubborn like me — slow to release, quick to hope — that delay can make the whole process a painful unravelling.

I struggle with that. The letting go. Even when the season has clearly changed. Even when the signs are everywhere, like falling leaves on a crisp autumn morning, telling me it’s time to move on. I can still smell the warmth of summer, still hold onto the good memories, the shared jokes, the glimmers of who that person was at their best.

But God… God’s been gently reminding me that holding onto what was only meant for a season can block what He has for my next season.

See, I wrote this many years ago — probably scribbled it in a journal when I was trying to act like I wasn’t struggling with this exact thing — but I compared life to a tree. A tree that freely gives up its leaves for winter. It doesn't resist. It doesn't cling to the dry, brittle remnants of summer. It knows… instinctively, faithfully… that a new season is coming. And with it, new growth.

That image has been burning fresh in my mind lately. And I’ve realized — I need to be more like that tree. I need to trust the refining process of life. Of faith. Of relationships. Of God-ordained seasons shifting, even when my heart isn't ready.

This weekend, that truth hit me square between the eyes.

There are a few people in my life right now that I’ve been holding space for — probably longer than I should have. Not in bitterness, not in resentment, but in hope. In the belief that the good I saw in them — and still see, if I'm honest — might eventually blossom again. But as I sat in reflection, and yes, a little bit of Holy Spirit conviction, I realized… those relationships aren’t giving me energy. In fact, they’re draining it.

Not through active conflict or hurtful words. But through silence. Through the constant, low-grade ache of being the only one still holding the thread. The only one willing to send that text. The only one keeping the door cracked, just in case they wanted to walk back through it.

In one case, I finally took the step. I initiated a closure conversation. Respectful. Honest. Vulnerable. I let them know where I stood. That I cared. That I saw the good in them, but also that I recognized this season seemed to have run its course.

And the response? Well… let’s just say it didn’t exactly land how I hoped.

They shared how much they had going on in their life. Almost as if my desire for closure was an intrusion. As if my simple acknowledgment that things had changed was somehow selfish, inconsiderate, poorly timed.

And for a minute — okay, maybe longer than a minute — I questioned myself. Felt guilty. Felt small. Wondered if I was out of line. But here’s the thing:

We all have a lot going on.

We all carry unseen burdens, unspoken struggles, unanswered prayers. And I get it — sometimes people can’t give us what we hope for. But here’s the flip side — sometimes it’s not about them giving us anything. It’s about us taking care of our heart, our energy, our space.

If someone can’t muster four keystrokes to say "Hey" — and no, I’m not talking about grand gestures here — I’m talking about the bare minimum effort to keep connection alive in a world where it’s easier than ever — well… maybe it’s time to stop holding the thread.

And before you worry that I’m wandering into bitterness, let me assure you — I’m not. I wrestled with this. I prayed on this. I brought it to God like a kid bringing a broken toy to their Dad, asking Him to fix the pieces or tell me it’s time to toss it.

And here’s where it gets deeper. This isn’t just about closure for closure’s sake. It’s about being Christ-like in how we navigate the endings, too.

See, as Christians, we often hyper-focus on forgiveness, on grace, on enduring through the hard stuff — and yes, all of that matters. But we skip over the biblical truth that sometimes, walking away — with love, with peace, with blessing — is not only okay… it’s necessary.

Think of Jesus Himself.

He wasn’t afraid of endings.

He wasn’t afraid to let people walk away.

He wasn’t afraid to draw boundaries.

Three Biblical Truths About the Value of Closure

Let me walk you through three biblical anchors that have been grounding me as I work through this process:

1. Even Jesus Let People Go

In John 6:66-67, we see one of the most sobering moments in Jesus' ministry:

"From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him. 'You do not want to leave too, do you?' Jesus asked the Twelve."

Jesus — perfect love embodied — allowed people to walk away. He didn’t chase. He didn’t beg. He didn’t manipulate or guilt-trip them back into relationship. He respected their choice and trusted the Father's timing.

It stings when people walk away — but even Jesus experienced it. And sometimes, loving well means letting go.

2. There’s a Season for Everything

Ecclesiastes 3:1 reminds us:

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..."

Including relationships.

The teacher in Ecclesiastes doesn’t sugarcoat it. He names seasons of life and death, planting and uprooting, embracing and refraining. Closure isn’t failure — it’s recognizing when the God-ordained season has shifted.

The leaves fall. The tree doesn’t panic. It trusts the process.

3. Guard Your Heart, It’s Biblical

Proverbs 4:23 commands:

"Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it."

Notice — it doesn’t say harden your heart. It says guard it.

Keeping open-ended, energy-draining, one-sided connections alive can leave our hearts vulnerable to exhaustion, discouragement, even bitterness. Sometimes, closure is the most loving, God-honouring thing we can do — for ourselves and for the other person.

---

So, as I sit here, typing these words out, I’m preaching to myself as much as to anyone else. I don’t have this mastered. Heck, I barely have it moderately figured out. But I know this:

Life’s too short to cling to dead leaves.

I’m choosing — in faith, with trembling hands and a hopeful heart — to let go where I need to.

To be like the tree.

To trust the season shift.

And to believe that God — in His infinite kindness — has new relationships, new growth, new reasons waiting just around the corner.

But I’ll only have room to receive them if my hands aren’t still clutching what He’s already called me to release.

So if you’re in this space too — wrestling with endings, resisting closure, second-guessing your worth because someone else couldn't see it — I hope you hear me when I say this:

It’s okay to let go.

It’s not un-Christlike to close a chapter.

Sometimes, the most Jesus-like thing you can do… is trust the season's change, bless them on their way, and keep walking.

Because your next season?

It might just be your best one yet.

---

Final Thought

…Because your next season?

It might just be your best one yet.

But I’d be lying if I said that truth always feels comforting in the moment. It doesn’t. Sometimes, it feels like a loss. Sometimes, it feels like failure. Sometimes, it feels like your heart is a garden bed freshly turned — all the old roots ripped out, the soil exposed and raw, and you’re standing there, staring at the emptiness, wondering if anything will ever grow again.

But here's what I’ve learned — and keep learning, over and over, because apparently, I need the remedial course on this: God never wastes the soil.

Every tear that falls into that soil? It waters the ground.

Every unanswered question? It loosens the earth.

Every quiet ache of letting go? It makes room for new roots to take hold.

See, what I’m realizing — painfully, but beautifully — is that endings are rarely about rejection. They’re about redirection. About God, in His infinite wisdom and timing, guiding our lives toward the people, places, and purposes that truly align with where He’s calling us next.

And yes, it’s okay to grieve along the way. Jesus wept. He wept over Lazarus. He wept over Jerusalem. If the Son of God Himself made space for grief, we’re not weak for doing the same.

I think sometimes we confuse strength with indifference. We think being “strong” means we don’t care. That we harden up, shut down, cut ties and never look back. But real strength? Godly strength? It’s softer than that. It’s slower. It’s steady. It’s honest enough to say, This hurts, faithful enough to say, But I trust You, God, and courageous enough to say, I’ll let go, even when I don’t understand.

That’s where I want to live. Not in bitterness. Not in false bravado. But in that sacred, trembling space where grief and hope hold hands.

And maybe — just maybe — letting go isn’t about turning your back on love at all. Maybe it’s about loving someone enough to release them to their own story, their own season, their own growth — even if that growth happens outside of your life.

It doesn’t erase the good you shared.

It doesn’t cancel the memories.

It doesn’t undo the impact.

It simply acknowledges that their role in your story — for now, maybe forever — has reached its natural conclusion. And that’s not only okay… it’s holy.

Because God? He’s still writing.

Your story isn’t over.

Your garden isn’t barren.

Your tree? It might be stripped bare right now — but winter never has the final word.

Spring is coming.

The buds will break through the branches again.

New friendships will bloom.

New love will take root.

New seasons, new reasons, new revelations — all in His perfect timing.

So I’ll keep praying for the strength to be like the tree. To release when it's time. To trust when it’s hard. And to believe — fiercely, stubbornly, wholeheartedly — that the God who designed the seasons hasn’t made a mistake with mine.

Not one falling leaf, not one silent goodbye, not one closed door… escapes His attention.

And if that’s true — and I believe with everything in me that it is — then I can let go.

And so can you.

Because when God closes a chapter, it’s not rejection… it’s preparation.

And the next page?

It just might hold more beauty than you ever imagined.