All the Seasons at Once
By now, I probably should have realized that a sermon from my pastor, Rev. Magrey deVega, can take me in unexpected directions. In May 2025, a simple text conversation introduced me to two Latin words I hadn’t heard before: memento mori. Remember that you must die. That brief exchange sparked my curiosity and led me to explore Stoicism, a philosophy I barely knew.
This past Sunday, Magrey preached on Ecclesiastes and the changing seasons of life. And there he was again, right in the middle of the sermon, casually tossing out another reference to the Stoics. Apparently, he hasn’t finished giving me homework from the pulpit.
It’s funny how much has changed between those two sermons. When I first started reading about Stoicism, it was just out of curiosity. The ideas caught my attention, especially since they matched values I already believed in. I read Marcus Aurelius, Seneca, and Epictetus, and soon I was writing about what I learned. I didn’t realize then how important those lessons would be.
As 2025 unfolded, life gave me plenty of material to work with, much of it I would gladly have done without.
My mother passed away, and I started dealing with a grief that still catches me off guard. I also lost my job, which left me unsure about my career, my finances, and what the future might hold. At a time when I expected more stability, I found myself rebuilding parts of a life I thought was settled. Through everything, I kept reading, writing, and trying to use the Stoic ideas I’d learned.
Sometimes I wonder how I would have handled those months if I hadn’t discovered Stoicism when I did. I know I would have made it through, just as people have faced hard times for ages. Still, I probably would have spent even more time worrying about things I couldn’t change. I did enough of that anyway.
The Weariness of It All
Magrey’s sermon started with Ecclesiastes 1:1–11, a passage that can feel pretty bleak at first. The Teacher says everything is vanity, then describes a world where generations come and go, the sun rises and sets, the wind keeps circling, and rivers flow to a sea that never fills. People work and struggle, but the world stays the same. In time, even the memory of those who came before us fades away.
The New Revised Standard Version translates the Teacher’s opening declaration as “Vanity of vanities! All is vanity.” The Common English Bible puts it more bluntly. “Perfectly pointless, everything is pointless.” Neither sounds like an especially promising beginning for a sermon about finding hope.
Magrey admitted that when he first read Ecclesiastes, he wondered why such a depressing book belonged in the Bible. He described the Teacher as someone who had pursued nearly everything people usually associate with a meaningful life, including wealth, pleasure, accomplishment, and wisdom, only to find that none provided the lasting satisfaction he sought.
I get that frustration. It’s unsettling to think about how much effort we put into building lives that won’t last forever. We work for career success, gather possessions, build relationships, and plan for a future that rarely goes as expected. Eventually, we realize how little control we have over any of it lasting.
But Magrey offered another way to look at the Teacher’s words. We usually see time as a straight line, moving from the past to the future. We set goals, make plans, and measure progress by how close we get to them. A lot of our purpose comes from believing we’re moving forward.
Ecclesiastes invites us to notice life’s repeating patterns. The sun rises and sets. The seasons return. Generations come and go. Human life unfolds within patterns that existed long before us and will continue after we’re gone. Magrey wondered if those patterns could be reassuring. Even when our lives feel unpredictable, nature keeps moving as usual. The sun will rise tomorrow, whether we’ve solved our problems or spent the night worrying.
There’s comfort in that regularity, though I think the Teacher would remind us that another sunrise isn’t promised. That idea has become important to how I see Stoicism. I’ve learned to value the steadiness of ordinary days, while knowing those routines can change quickly.
Living More Than One Season
From those opening verses, Magrey turned to Ecclesiastes 3, perhaps the most familiar passage in the book. It begins, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” The verses go on to describe the changing conditions of human life, with a time to be born and a time to die, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.
People of my generation probably know those words from the Byrds’ 1965 recording of Turn! Turn! Turn!, a song Pete Seeger adapted from a biblical passage. Magrey jokingly reminded us that the words “turn, turn, turn” aren’t actually part of the scripture. Apparently, the Byrds exercised a little creative license.
For years, I understood the passage as describing the stages we move through in life. We have our good times, and eventually something difficult comes along. We endure the hardship and hope that happier days will follow. There’s comfort in believing that whatever we’re experiencing will eventually give way to something else.
Magrey shared another way to think about those words, and it’s stuck with me since Sunday.
The most thought-provoking part of Magrey’s sermon came when he introduced a poem by the Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai called A Man in His Life. His friend Rabbi Joel Simon shared it with him, and it offered a different way to understand the changing seasons described in Ecclesiastes.
Amichai suggests that a human life is too short to experience all those seasons neatly, one after another. We find ourselves living several of them at the same time. We can experience grief while discovering new happiness. Something familiar may be ending even as something else is beginning. We can be mourning a loss while finding reasons to celebrate.
As I listened that Sunday morning, I realized how well that described my last year and a half.
While I was grieving my mother, I was also discovering something new about myself through my writing. During months of professional uncertainty, I found meaningful ways to use my time through volunteer work, friendships, and community involvement. Some days I was discouraged by the job search, then found myself genuinely enjoying an afternoon working on a project or talking with friends at the Portico.
All those experiences happened at the same time, sometimes even in the same hour. Grief didn’t wait for me to finish rebuilding my career. Happiness didn’t wait until every problem was solved. Sometimes I worried about the future and still felt thankful for my life.
I had already begun to understand this through the Stoic practice of acceptance. Epictetus taught that some things are within our control and others are beyond it. We can choose how to respond to circumstances, although we cannot always determine what those circumstances will be. That distinction became especially important when I was searching for work. I could make contacts, submit applications, and prepare for interviews. Whether someone decided to hire me belonged to someone else.
But Ecclesiastes, especially as Amichai interprets it, adds another layer to that idea. It helps me see how complex my experiences really are. I can accept something painful and still look forward to something good. My life can hold both at once.
Maybe that’s part of growing older. We gain enough experience to see that life doesn’t fit into neat chapters. We bring our past with us, including the people we’ve lost and the moments that changed us. At the same time, we keep making plans, learning, and building new relationships that might matter in ways we can’t predict.
Finding Steadiness in Ordinary Days
Another part of Magrey’s sermon focused on the steady rhythms that can sustain us when life feels uncertain. He talked about the sun rising and setting, our breathing, and nature’s cycles. He suggested we can create our own routines through daily habits that support our physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being.
That sounded remarkably familiar.
Over the past year, my morning walks have become a key part of my routine. I usually go out before sunrise, sometimes along Bayshore Boulevard, and watch the sky brighten over Tampa Bay. Some mornings are beautiful, with pink clouds over the water. Other days are muggy, cloudy, or just typical Florida mornings. I walk no matter what.
There’s something reassuring about starting the day with a familiar routine. No matter what uncertainty waits for me later, I can spend those first minutes walking, thinking, and noticing the world around me. Some mornings I work through a problem. Other times I listen to a podcast or just enjoy the quiet.
I’ve also kept up my exercise routine and continued journaling, writing down both the everyday events and the things that trouble or encourage me. I started these habits to help my physical and mental health, but over time, they became something more.
The Stoics understood the value of repeated practice. Epictetus taught that habits grow stronger through repeated action. Seneca described examining his conduct at the end of each day, looking honestly at what he had done and how he might improve. Marcus Aurelius left us an extraordinary record of his own efforts to live according to the principles he believed mattered.
Magrey and Matt Hotho talked about something similar in their Beyond the Sermon conversation. They said Ecclesiastes is like a personal journal, with the Teacher trying to make sense of life through his own experiences. Magrey suggested that we can learn wisdom by paying attention to our own lives.
That idea means a lot to me because much of my writing about Stoicism has grown in the same way. I take an idea from an ancient philosopher and try to see what it means in my own life. Sometimes the connections are clear. Other times, I have to struggle with them. My essay Whittling Away at Uncertainty came from admitting I didn’t really know what wisdom meant or how someone becomes wise.
I’m still working on that one.
An Old Understanding Shared Across Traditions
What fascinates me about Stoicism is how often I find similar ideas in other philosophical and religious traditions. I noticed these connections early on, and they helped me see why ideas from thousands of years ago still matter today.
Ecclesiastes offers a particularly interesting example.
The ancient Stoics believed that the universe operated according to a rational order and that wisdom involved learning to live in harmony with nature. Marcus Aurelius repeatedly reminded himself that change belongs to the natural order of existence. Everything we encounter is temporary, including ourselves. He encouraged acceptance of that reality as part of living well.
In Taoism, an ancient Chinese philosophical tradition, there’s a related understanding of life’s changing patterns. The familiar image of yin and yang shows how seemingly opposite conditions exist in relation to one another. Light and darkness, growth and decline, and activity and rest are part of the natural world’s movement.
That idea reminds me of how Amichai reads Ecclesiastes. Life brings experiences that seem to contradict each other when we look at them separately. But often, they belong together, and learning to live with that complexity might be part of wisdom.
Buddhism approaches the question through the teaching of impermanence. Everything that arises through changing conditions eventually changes or passes away. Much of our suffering comes from wanting experiences and circumstances to remain as they are. Learning to accept impermanence can help us appreciate what we have while it is here.
I hear something similar in the Stoic practice of memento mori, the idea that first set me on this path. Remembering that life is limited can change how we value our days and the people we spend them with.
There’s also a meaningful connection within the Jewish tradition from which Ecclesiastes comes. The book is known as Kohelet and is traditionally read during Sukkot, a festival that includes dwelling in temporary shelters. The practice reminds worshippers of the fragile, temporary nature of human life while also encouraging gratitude for the gifts they have received.
Islam, too, recognizes the passing nature of earthly life and the need to remain faithful through changing circumstances. The Quran speaks of ease accompanying hardship, a thought that resonates with the possibility of finding hope while difficulty remains present.
I don’t think these traditions are all the same. Each one has its own view of God, human life, and what it means to live well. Still, I find it encouraging that people from so many cultures and times have wrestled with the same questions. We’ve always tried to make sense of suffering, change, and the short time we have.
And we have kept finding ways to live meaningful lives within those limits.
What the Seasons Have Taught Me
Looking back over these months, I see how much my view of Stoicism has changed. What started as curiosity turned into habits I could use when life got tough. I learned to notice when I was worrying about things I couldn’t control. I became more thoughtful about how I spent my time and paid more attention to the people and activities that made my days meaningful.
I still struggle with these things. Some mornings, anxiety takes over before reason. Sometimes I dwell too long on things I wish had gone differently. I keep discovering how difficult acceptance can be when something matters deeply to me.
But I’ve noticed some changes, too. I’m a bit better at spotting those moments and finding my way back to feeling steady. I can admit when I’m disappointed without letting it take over the whole day. I’ve started noticing the everyday moments that deserve my attention, especially time with friends and people I love.
My work life is starting to settle again. I have a new job, I’m getting to know new colleagues, and I’m doing work that interests me. This stability is welcome after a long stretch of uncertainty. Still, the grief of losing my mother is with me, along with other worries that come with getting older.
Those parts of my life continue together.
In an earlier essay, The Gift of Memento Mori, I wrote about the holiness of ordinary days and why paying attention matters. I understood that idea in theory back then, but what happened afterward made it much more real. Some days that once seemed ordinary now stand out in my memory because of the people I shared them with. Others became important because of what I learned, even when things were hard.
I think that’s why Magrey’s sermon affected me so deeply. Ecclesiastes begins with the unsettling recognition that much of what we chase is temporary, and that life often happens beyond our control. I recognized that feeling. The Stoics helped me face the same truth when everything I relied on changed. But Magrey’s view gave me something new to think about. Even in life’s repeating patterns and its mixed-up seasons, there can be hope. We can grieve and rebuild at the same time. We can feel uncertain and still find happiness. And we can keep learning how to live well, even when life looks nothing like we expected.
There is wisdom in recognizing that complexity, and perhaps some peace in allowing ourselves to experience it.
I’m grateful that a simple text from my pastor led me to Stoicism eighteen months ago. I’m just as thankful that he keeps sharing ideas that make me rethink what I’ve learned. He probably never guessed that two Latin words would lead to so much reading, reflection, and writing.
Now Ecclesiastes has given me even more to think about. At this rate, I might never finish my homework.
But maybe that’s okay. Seneca said we should keep learning how to live for as long as we’re alive. I think there’s a lot of wisdom in that. More changes will come, more losses, and hopefully many more chances for happiness. Some will show up when I expect them, and others will come when I’m busy with something else.
I want to keep learning how to welcome them, even if several seasons come at the same time.
