Spring Reflections

The Gift of Seasons and God’s Goodness

Viola sororia

Spring never asks permission. It simply arrives—sometimes in the gentlest green haze, sometimes in a sudden riot of blossoms. And before we’ve quite caught our breath from winter’s hush, we find ourselves ankle-deep in the soft rush of new life. Every year, without fail, it reminds us that the world is still being made new, and that we are still invited to take part in it.

But now, as April bends toward May and the sun lingers longer over the horizon, spring begins to lean into summer. The air thickens with pollen and promise. Seeds that were hidden break into stalks and stems. Herbs and greens grow bold in the garden beds. And the goodness of God’s design is everywhere if we have the eyes to see it.

“He made the moon to mark the seasons; the sun knows its time for setting.”

—Psalm 104:19

This verse comes from a psalm that overflows with delight in creation. Psalm 104 paints a picture of a world sustained and ordered by God—not a clockwork universe left to wind down, but a living masterpiece tended by its Maker. Each season comes by His hand, not only for function but for flourishing. Not just to exist, but to thrive.

Spring’s transition to summer can be a spiritual invitation. The earth’s rhythms mirror the life of the soul: seasons of rest and renewal, of growth and bearing fruit. Just as the land is stirred into fullness, we too are called into movement, into cultivation—of gardens, yes, but also of lives, habits, relationships, and wisdom.

Creation’s design includes not just beauty, but utility: food, medicine, healing. Plants sprouting from soil are not only for sustenance but for restoration. Garlic for immunity. Turmeric for inflammation. Mint to soothe the stomach. Fig leaves to aid insulin. These aren’t “alternatives”—they’re originals. And while modern medicine has its place (and often a critical one), Scripture reminds us that God’s provision often starts in the garden.

“The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”

—Revelation 22:2

From Genesis to Revelation, God’s design is holistic. Eden was planted with both nourishment and beauty. In Ezekiel 47:12, we read of trees by the river whose fruit is for food and leaves for healing. He has provided richly, and we are called not just to consume it blindly, but to steward it wisely.

“The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to work it and keep it.”

—Genesis 2:15

That command still stands. To tend. To keep. To study the gifts of nature and understand how they help us. To learn from their design, their timing, their synergy. To nourish ourselves and others not just with food, but with the discipline and joy of care. That’s stewardship. It’s how we image the Creator.

And as summer approaches, that stewardship might look like drying herbs on the windowsill. It might mean learning what foods your body actually responds well to. It might mean planting heirloom seeds or fermenting vegetables or simply spending more time outside with your feet in the grass and your heart in prayer.

These aren’t just nostalgic or aesthetic gestures—they are faithful ones. Because God did not make a disposable world, and He did not make disposable people. Everything He made, He called “very good.” Including you. Including the soil beneath your feet. Including the air thick with bees and the dandelions blooming at the fence line.

So let the changing season teach you. Let it soften the wintered places in your heart. Let it remind you that rest, while still important, is not the end goal—fruitfulness is. Not every season will look the same, but every one can bear good things.

May we not rush through this transition, nor grumble at the heat to come, but receive it with open hands—like every other good and perfect gift from above.

“For everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving.”

—1 Timothy 4:4

Stewardship may not look the same in every household—or even between husband and wife. In ours, my husband has the green thumb. He’s out in the garden, coaxing life from the soil, learning the patterns of planting and pruning, and quite literally growing in the process. I find my rhythm more in the drying and storing, the medicines and meanings—the preparation of what comes after the harvest. While he works in the flourishing, I often tend to what’s been cut down. Storing away for when one might need a particularly pointed tea brew. Even in the dead and dried there is beauty. Death may feel foreign to us, a curse we instinctively resist, but in the hands of Jesus, even death becomes a tool for healing. Compost enriches the next season’s soil. Dried herbs strengthen the body. The end of one thing becomes the beginning of another. This is the harmony God has written into the circle of life—one that teaches us that nothing, not even what seems lost, is wasted in His design.

“Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of service, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who empowers them all in everyone.”

—1 Corinthians 12:4–6

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted.”

—Ecclesiastes 3:1–2

Here’s to watching the world turn green again. And to trying our best to steward it with reverence and joy.

With love,

Flourish & Fray