Landslide

A famous song lyric asks a question I’ve been thinking about lately.

“Can I handle the seasons of my life?”

Stevie Nicks answers, not with confidence or eloquence.

She says, “I don’t know.”

And speaking of not knowing…

I don’t know why the song has been haunting me, so I looked up the lyrics to find a clue.

Oddly, nearly every transcription I found leaves out her answer.

“I don’t know” is omitted.

Why?

I mean, her answer is clearly audible in the recording.

Maybe even transcription software doesn’t like to admit there are questions that have no answers.

The entire song always makes me melancholy.

And that particular question...

It just hits me.

Hard.

But lately, I’ve started to think of it a little differently.

Maybe what I’m really asking is, “HOW will I handle the seasons of my life?”

Still, the same answer.

“I don’t know.”

And it’s unsettling.

Unsettling because I think I may be guilty of mistaking uncertainty for incapacity.

I demand evidence from my future self while ignoring all the evidence my past self has supplied.

If you’re reading this, you too HAVE handled every season of your life so far.

Sure, I haven’t always handled my seasons gracefully.

I’ve tripped and fallen, bruised my knees and elbows, and probably ended up with a concussion or two.

But I handled the season.

Some I must have handled with precision and power.

Like a ballerina. Like a shooting star. Like a boss.

Well, that’s the story I’m telling myself because, honestly, I don’t remember those nearly as well.

I mostly remember the times I slid into first base headfirst.

(And yes, I do realize that’s not how one would or should get to first.)

But that’s been my reality.

The evidence of my past doesn’t prove that I handled everything with ease.

It only proves that I managed.

And now the seasons are changing again.

They always do.

Some seasons happen to us.

Some we choose.

And apparently choosing a new season doesn’t mean we know how to live in it yet.

And we never know exactly what we’ll look like on the other side.

Maybe we’re not supposed to know.

Wait—we’re definitely not supposed to know.

I’ve learned that “I don’t know” isn’t an admission of weakness.

It’s simply the only honest answer to a question about a season I haven’t lived yet.

(And it should not be omitted from the transcriptions!)

So, can I handle the seasons of my life?

I don’t know HOW.

But I have a lifetime of evidence that says I can.

Not always gracefully.

Not without a few bruises.

And apparently, every now and then, headfirst into first base.

But I can.

And when I question HOW, I’ll step up to bat and trust the One who knows.