I feel the seasons shifting again.
Not only in the weather (Texas doesn't really have changing seasons), but in the shape of life.
We've closed our house in Provence for a short season, knowing I’ll return in a few months. The shutters drawn, the garden stilled, the rooms waiting. Yet in my heart, Provence keeps it's rhythm—the markets buzzing, the stone walls glowing gold in the afternoon light, the lavender bending in the breeze. It's not over, only paused, a chapter held open with a bookmark in place.
In the meantime, I find myself back in the States, beginning a new chapter here. Different surroundings, different rhythms, new possibilities opening. There is work to tend to, roots to sink more deeply, and a life that asks to be lived fully in this place.
It feels like living in two seasons at once—my heart stretched across the ocean, carrying both the ache of leaving and the anticipation of beginning. One season not yet complete, another already unfolding.
I think the overlap is rarely simple. I'm beginning to see that the Lord often writes our stories this way—not in clean lines, but layered. One season spilling into another. The unfinished making way for the new, beauty carried forward, even across distance.
So I step into what is here with a quiet sense of both ending and beginning. We pray, we ask the Lord for guidance. I see one chapter gently, and I'm so, so grateful for what it has given. I see the opening of another with equal care. Provence comes with me—the colors, the stillness, the rootedness it pressed into my heart. This place holds its own beginnings too, asking me to notice, to listen, to learn. Both chapters shaping me, both still alive, even as the pages turn.
