Watching the Weather

This week, Calgary has felt like a study in contrasts.

One moment, the sky is dark with thunderclouds rolling across the horizon. Next, the sun breaks through, and the garden seems to have grown another inch overnight.

The peonies are beginning to open. The lilacs are fading. The grass is impossibly green.

It has me thinking about how often life unfolds the same way.

We spend a lot of time looking for certainty. We want clear answers. We want to know exactly where we are headed. We want a five-year plan for our lives, our churches, our communities, and sometimes even our faith.

Instead, what we often get is weather.

Storms.

Sunshine.

Unexpected growth.

New possibilities.

Moments of doubt.

Moments of hope.

And somehow, life keeps unfolding anyway.

I've been spending a lot of time in the garden this week. Partly because everything is blooming, and partly because of the new puppy who is learning the rhythms of life, one sniff, one adventure, and one bathroom break at a time.

If you've ever trained a puppy, you know there is very little certainty involved. There are moments when you think you've figured it all out, followed immediately by a puddle on the floor or a shoe disappearing into the backyard.

The puppy doesn't spend much time worrying about tomorrow. He is completely captivated by whatever is right in front of him. A flower moving in the breeze. A robin hopping across the grass. A stick that absolutely must be investigated.

As I've sat in the garden watching him discover the world, I've realized how much of life happens this way. Not through grand plans or perfect certainty, but through paying attention.

The garden doesn't bloom all at once.

The puppy doesn't learn everything in a day.

And most of the important things in life grow more slowly than we would like.

Lately, I have found myself thinking a lot about discernment. Not the kind that arrives in a flash of certainty, but the quieter kind. The kind that asks us to pay attention.

What is growing?

What is fading?

What keeps showing up?

What gives life?

Sometimes we imagine discernment as standing at a crossroads, waiting for a sign pointing clearly in the right direction. But more often, I think discernment looks like gardening.

We prepare the soil.

We plant a few seeds.

We tend what is growing.

And then we wait.

Not passively. Hopefully.

Trusting that growth is often happening long before we can see it.

The thunderstorms will come. They always do.

But so do the peonies.

And every morning, despite yesterday's rain, the puppy runs back into the garden convinced there is something new to discover.

Maybe that is a kind of faith.

And maybe that is reason enough to keep looking toward the horizon with hope.