I am ready for summer to die.

My internal clock must still be set on New York, because as soon as I see September approaching, my body expects to walk outside and feel cool winds, see leaves turning color. And that is just not happening around here in Atlanta. The highs promise to remain in the mid-90s all week, and when I go outside all I feel is pit sweat and lightheadedness. My brothers, this should not be.

The Apple Crumble and Autumn scented candles I bought in a spasm of hope a few weeks ago sit on the shelf, waiting for their moment to come to life. I see Halloween decorations and costumes and candy already dotting the aisles of the drugstore, and all I can do is wait for that turn in the temperature. As a child (i.e., up until a few years ago), I used to cling to summer–with its moments spent on lakes and at beaches and in pools, and dread fall–with its accompanying books and schedules. Now my favorite seasons are the in-between ones, the relief that spring brings from the frozen hibernation of winter and the relief that fall brings from the sweaty heat of summer. These seasons carry promise–the guarantee that time will turn over, that we will not stay where we are forever. Something deep within me responds to that promise, maybe because I know how much I need to not stay in one spot.

And yet that’s what I’m doing these days, home more often than not, my butt growing more accustomed to the couch cushions than the running trail as a matter of both circumstance and necessity. I’m facing the challenge of finding life in a blinking cursor and a growing document on a screen; in walks to the mailbox; in new recipes; in the pages of books; and in the people around me–one highlight being the wake-up call beside me this past Saturday morning in the form of The Husband bolting out of bed voluntarily and running around the house in celebration of Fantasy Football Draft Day. Talk about coming to life: we accomplished more before noon than ever (although most of it had to do with assembling food and drinks and loading them in the car to take to The Sis and Bro-in-Law’s).

I’m learning not to limit life to the places where I expect it to show up. I’m remembering why it’s not just encouraging that there was a third day–it’s essential. There is material I need for each day hidden in the reality of empty sheets and barren tombs. When I face the little deaths that life on this earth inevitably brings, I am forced to embrace the central tenet of my faith, the fact that resurrection means everything. If I don’t believe that life can come from death as much today as two milennia ago, then I might as well just fall asleep until labor starts. But in the waiting, there is living, and the fluttering life I feel inside will soon be matched by cool breezes outside, and as I bury my stuffed-up nose in the pages of great stories, I read the truth behind them all, the idea that sustains both nature and literature and everyday life: with death always comes life. That’s a promise.