Seasons Change: Read the winners of our September challenge!

Fall is officially here, and the changing seasons inspired the September Writing Challenge from the Southern Christian Writers Conference.

Our challenge this month?

Write a true personal reflection (800 words maximum) with the title "Changing Seasons."

We received a wonderful collection of essays, and were incredibly touched by the stories and messages in all of them. It made it hard to select our winners...but, we did! 

Congratulations to the following SCWC writers for their winning reflections (but, congratulations also to everyone who submitted their pieces to this challenge; we honestly could have given recognition to every one of them. Keep writing, and know that your work is appreciated). 

Our top winners for this month are:

1st place: Vicki Moats

2nd place: M.M.R. Warren

3rd place: Cindy Mount

Honorable mention: Christopher Sykes

Honorable mention: Sue Mohr

Honorable mention: Amber Lambert

Enjoy their wonderful reflections below. We pray that they'll encourage you as you consider the seasons in life, and how Christ's love is with us through them all.

"The Changing Seasons:
The Seasonless Soul"

by Vicki Moats

Seasons come, and seasons go
From birthing cries to falling snow.
In varied hues with varied tone
Each season, a purpose all its own.
Each a part of the perfect whole
While I am a perennial soul.

All life has been created with seasonal changes: birth, growth, maturity, death. And each season communicates to us in its own language. We have only to listen, and we can hear the seasons speak.

Spring sings to us in silent birthing cries. The crocuses shove soundlessly upward through the crusty earth and snow to be followed by the succulent stems of daffodils and tulips. Tender shoots of grass can be bruised by the gentlest breeze or killed by sudden cold. Like robin’s shells, life is fragile in its beginning, easily crushed. The spotted fawn, the chicks, and ducklings are all easy prey. Spring is such a brutal time, but I have an indestructible soul.

Unlike quiet Spring, Summer shouts her presence. The burning sun blares downward, and flowers form the percussion in radiant reds and luminous yellows. Jewel tone zinnias feed the vivid butterflies. Kids yell in overcrowded pools. Summer is loud with heat and insects in parks and picnics, beaches and lakes.

There is even a kind of madness to the season spurred on by the burn, the itch, and the discomfort. Yet people tumble outdoors in adolescent urgency as if there will never come another sunny day and all living must be done today. Summer can be both loud and bold, yet I have the calm of a peaceful soul.

Then, with cooler air, life becomes calmer. The juvenile and boisterous colors of Summer fade into quieter, subtler shades of orange, wine, loden green, and gold. People wrap in woolen shawls, sit around firepits, and sip freshly pressed cider. Autumn is a stable time, a time of reaping: pumpkins and persimmons, corn and grapes. Fall carnivals and county fairs bring people together, there is a sense of purpose in activities, and the air smells of pumpkin spice and freshly bailed hay.

In this season of abundance, I am aware of my bountiful soul.

Shh-h-h. Winter talks in whispers. There are secrets buried under the decaying leaves of fall and under the thickening layer of snow. Hush. The doe flicks her white tail never to be seen or heard again. Trails of smaller creatures imprint the snow while the creatures themselves remain hidden.

Inside homes, children hear the grownups whisper, and they know there will be gifts under the tree, but what? And the most silent night of the entire year arrives. Silent night. Holy night. I am unworried as I approach this coldest of winters, for I am an undying soul.

Thank God for the beauty of the seasons.
Thank Him for all nature around us.
Thank Him for the bounty of harvest.
Thank Him for our ceaseless souls.
Amen. Amen.

"Changing Seasons"

by M.M.R. Warren

                                 

My parents say that I don’t like change because of the divorce. I suppose so, but I’m still unsure. Our lives were altered by the divorce, and we were all affected.

I hated leaving the farm. But I got to live in two homes, one with mom and one with dad. The transfer every other weekend disrupted sleep like the wrong chord in a harmony. A new school was nice at first, but then new bullies replaced the old ones. I felt that I lost more than the farm and old routines. I had lost my home, family, and self. The grief came like a tidal wave, flooding my trust with doubt, overwhelming my senses with fear, and drowning my dreams of that family farm on the hill. Change became devasting.

I know that not all change is full of such difficult emotions. The salty smell of the air from the summer coastline rain shifts to clear, cool crispness on a September morning. That is one of my favorite changes. The evening blast of cicada songs turns to cricket harmonies, referee whistles, and cheers. Summer changes to Autumn in a natural accord.

Contrarily, moving from the farm to an apartment with Mom for Thanksgiving and a rental suburban house with dad for Christmas felt abnormal. The union that made me had fractured, and my cracked sense of self, family, and home protruded like a broken bone. I felt emotionally handicapped with no ramp to ascend.

Even so, I love how the woods change in the Winter. Sure, the weather can be grey and gloomy. Trees are dormant. Wildlife hibernates. But the winter slumber creates striking views through the forest. The underbrush dies away, so I can see deeper into the woods. The blue sky is carved by the dark brown, bare branches of trees quietly sustaining themselves with limited winter sunlight.

The sounds are no longer singing insects but whispering winds and crackling percussion of sticks and leaves. There’s mystery. Winter woods might seem dead and sad, but I dare say there’s magic there.

I remember when my parents each bought fake Christmas trees for our separated living spaces. Before the divorce, on the farm, we grew our own Christmas trees. It was a tradition for me to join Dad in the selection process and then join Mom in the decorating. That changed. We had lifeless, plastic trees. Of course, when I was a child, I didn’t consider the challenge adults had when they checked the living tree for bugs, cleaned up the debris, and remembered to fill the base with water. Nevertheless, our former tradition delighted us with the warm smell of cedar that covered the living room like a blanket. The twinkling strings of lights winked at us with cheer. The evergreen enlightened our views with color while the landscape faded into greyscale. Indeed, putting up the Christmas tree was my favorite childhood tradition.

Despite the loss of so much in the divorce, during my teen years, church events brought steady traditions. Lent alchemized into Easter. School days were replaced by an ever-morphing summer schedule of basketball camp, church camp, and different family vacations with each parent. Busy chaos created lifelong memories. New experiences molded the clay of my personality, interests, and aspirations. The change of seasons into spring and summer were beloved, full of life, influencers of courage to try something new.

This summer brought one of the most life altering events. I got to marry the man I prayed for. The balmy summer solstice baked us in light, love, and new life. Our friends and family anointed our union with sweaty hugs and kisses on our cheeks. The Lord sustained us in the heat of a Southern Summer with many meaningful moments, a festive feast, and an active air conditioner.

My parents and step parents conversed, danced, and laughed in peaceful harmony. What a gift. The metamorphosis from winter to summer is as dramatic as Dorothy’s grey tornado turns into the whimsical colors of the Land of Oz. I was scared of getting married, moving to a new state, and changing my career. And yet, these transitions have given me family, home, and made me more of who I’m meant to be.

As I reflect on changing seasons, I wonder is winter a grave or a womb? I think it’s both. Many aspects of change are devastating, like the tidal waves of grief in a divorce or the dying, dormant sleep of a dreary Winter. But as the trees and animals rest, they are preserved. They survive, Springs comes, and the storm passes. 

There’s power in remaining present. It’s a mysterious resurrection. God’s presence in the changing tides gives me courage to face the waves no matter how big and roaring they might be.

"(Changing Seasons)

The Edge of Becoming: Where Suffering Becomes Formation"

by Cindy Mount

Some seasons arrive without warning. They disorient us, slow us, and strip away what once felt certain. In these moments, suffering doesn’t just hurt—it confuses. And for many believers, especially those holding fragile hope, pain begins to feel like punishment.

But Scripture tells a different story.

“To show that You are His children, God sent the Spirit of His Son into our hearts, the Spirit who cries out, ‘Abba, Father.’ You no longer have to live as a slave because you are a child of God. And since you are His child, you will be given what He has promised.” –Galatians 4:6-7 (GNT, VOICE, CEV)

A Lived Reality

This is not a distant theological truth—it’s a lived reality. During one of the hardest seasons of my life, as my husband lay in the ICU for weeks, I found myself overwhelmed not just by grief, but by awe.

The tender child in both of us awakened to the staggering generosity of God. In our sixty- something bodies, we were beginning to grasp the depth of His love. And it changed everything.

Thresholds and Stones

In that sacred waiting place, Scripture came alive. Even ancient promises—like those in Joshua 3-4—felt personal and present. The Israelites stood at the edge of the Jordan, ready to cross into the land God had promised.

That moment wasn’t just historical—it was formative. It marked a transition from wandering to inheritance, from survival to surrender. It was a threshold—a sacred in-between space where identity is tested, trust is refined, and formation begins.

And I recognized that we, too, were standing in such a place. Not just beside a hospital bed, but between what had been and what was becoming. Between fear and faith. Ache and awe. God was speaking through everything I read, everything I experienced. His Word wasn’t distant—it was directed. And I trembled at the privilege.

“You, therefore, will be perfect [growing in spiritual maturity both in mind and character, actively
integrating godly values into your daily life], as your Heavenly Father is perfect.” —Matthew 5:48 (AMP)

The Divine Rule of Life

Oswald Chambers called it the “Divine Rule of Life”: to live not by common sense, but by divine likeness. To respond to life not with mere reaction, but with revelation. To mature by integrating God’s values into our daily lives, especially during painful times.

In suffering, we are invited to:
* Receive love, not earn it
* Remember promises, not forget them
* Stand with purpose, not fear
* Wait with courage, not despair

Psalm 27 anchors us in this truth:

“We are certain that we will see the LORD’s goodness in the land of the living. Wait patiently for the LORD. Be brave and courageous. Yet, wait patiently for the LORD.”

A Word for the Weary

This isn’t a demand for flawlessness. It’s an invitation to resemblance—to live as children who reflect the heart of the Father, even in the dark. The Divine Rule of Life is not about striving, but surrender. It’s about growing into the likeness of the One who loves us, even when we feel unworthy or unseen.

In places like an ICU, where fear and fragility press in, we may find ourselves awakening to the childlike awe of being His. The Spirit within us cries, “Abba, Father,” not as a performance, but as a declaration of belonging. That cry is the echo of divine life—evidence that even here, we are being formed.

It’s in these moments that we learn to live as children who trust that God is present in every threshold, and that His love is shaping us into something eternal.

Stones of Remembrance

So if you find yourself in a season of suffering, don’t rush past it. Don’t assume it’s punishment.

Ask instead:
What threshold am I standing in?
What stones of remembrance is God asking me to gather?

This reflection was one of mine—formed in the quiet, written in the margins of recovery. A
journal entry turned testimony. A moment of clarity gathered from the fog. May it help you gather
your own.

Closing Prayer

Help us, Abba, to fully access all that You have for us—for Your kingdom and glory. We simply

don’t have it in us. But You do. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.

"Changing Seasons:

A Father’s Reflection on Letting Go and Trusting God"

by Christopher Sykes

I used to think the hardest part of parenting would be the big talks—the “birds and bees,” the boundaries, the theology. I thought if I could just get those moments right, if I could teach my kids all the right verses and wrap it all in wisdom and wit, they’d be okay. They’d be anchored.

But what no one tells you is that the real test doesn’t come on the days you can see. It comes on the first Friday night.

That first Friday night of college. When the sun goes down on your daughter’s dorm room. When nobody’s watching. When nobody’s grading. When your daughter—your baby girl—has to decide for herself which voice she’s going to listen to.

That’s the test.

And no amount of lecturing or leading can take it for her.

I’ve walked a lot of people through pain as a pastor. I’ve stood in front of caskets, sat in hospital rooms, preached through my own tears. But something about watching my daughter lead worship—with that quiet trembling before she leaves home—unlocked a different ache in me.

Because parenting isn’t just about raising a child.

It’s about learning to let go of the only thing you’ve spent your life holding onto.

Caitlin isn’t just my daughter. She’s my worship leader. My baker. My banana-bread-for-Chick-fil-A crowd-bringer. My fearless, once-fiery, always-faithful daughter who found her footing on the very stage I preached from—often in spite of me, not because of me.

And that’s the beautiful, heartbreaking mystery of being a father and a pastor.

You plant, but God gives the growth.

You speak, but they decide who they’ll listen to.

You cry on a Sunday morning with tears you thought your medication had dried up, because you know—deep down—that this season is sacred, and that you don’t get to hold it forever.

That moment in church when Caitlin teared up during worship wasn’t just about the lyrics or the melody. It was a benediction. A closing prayer to one season, and the crackling fire of another one just beginning. The body was hurting that day—mine, hers, ours—and I felt it all the way through my father-heart and pastor-soul.

And I know I’m not the only one.

Maybe your child is still little, still clinging to your hand in the hallway. Or maybe they’re already gone, and you’re praying they remember the Jesus you tried to model, even when you barely held it together. Or maybe it’s not a child—it’s a friend, a spouse, a prodigal in your life who’s sitting on their own first Friday night moment right now.

Let me say what I have to keep preaching to myself:

We can’t be their Savior.

We can only point to Him.

We can’t take the test for them.

But we can make sure the foundation is strong.

We can’t silence every other voice in their head.

But we can make sure they’ve heard ours speak the truth, over and over again—kindly, humbly, consistently.

And when they go…

When they really go…

We can trust that the same God who carried them through middle school, heartbreak, and hormones is the same God who meets them in dorm rooms and new churches and first real jobs and Friday nights.

The question isn’t will they fail?

They will.

We did too.

The better question is: Will they get up again with the Holy Spirit in them?

Will they remember who they are, and whose they are?

Will they shut the mouth of the idols in their life and choose to listen to the voice of Jesus?

If I’ve done anything right as a father, I pray it’s this:

That my kids have seen a man who limps but still walks with God.

That they’ve heard the voice of grace louder than the voice of shame.

That when they walk into their own fire, they’ll know the fourth man is with them too.

So, to my daughter, and to every parent watching their child walk into a new season:

It’s okay to cry.

It’s okay to feel the body hurting.

But don’t stop praying. Don’t stop trusting.

And don’t stop speaking Jesus over them—because your voice may fade from the room,

but His never does.

The first Friday night is real.

But so is the God who never leaves.

"Changing Seasons"

by Sue Mohr

"Hi Sue, I'm sorry. I have some sad news. Your dad passed away a couple minutes ago.”

In the blink of an eye on a warm September day, seasons changed. Dad’s heart beat one minute, in the next, it fell silent.

My sister was visiting and we had been watching a movie together when the phone rang. We had just called the nursing home earlier that day to check on Dad. He had been there since his stroke 18 months ago. As we digested the news, I felt a shift. The air around us seemed different.

Time stood still for a moment, as if the world had paused to honor his leaving. The late afternoon light spilled through the living room window, and the ordinary hum of life; a motorcycle revving up outside, a kettle whistling on the stove, the actor’s voice on the television, even the rhythm of my own breath, suddenly sounded like a distant echo.

Memories arrived in a rush — his soft laugh, the way he’d pause before answering a question, the gentleness in his eyes. As tears flowed, my sister and I hugged and began to share stories. Holding on to his life one memory at a time.

Grief settled beside us like an unexpected visitor, heavy and quiet, but it wasn’t alone. Gratitude came too, threading through the sorrow, reminding us of late-night conversations, afternoon lunches, sharing our faith and the fragile gift of the fews years we’d been given with our Dad.

My sister, Patti, and I had been granted, what we now deem as a precious gift, a gift of five short years with our father. Years that had started and ended with forgiveness in our hearts.

Divorce hit our family when we were very young and we were raised by a single mom. Dad had quickly merged with another family and as time went by, he, unfortunately, lost touch with his two young daughters.

As life would have it, it went on. Then, one day, we received a phone call. A miracle call. Dad was on the other end of the line, asking us to forgive him. I was 59 years old, my sister was 57.

As we have told this story over and over, the question that has arisen time and time again was ‘how could you forgive?’ The answer wasn’t easy. We had asked ourselves the same thing, but we had a choice. To walk in the same season we had found ourselves in for over five decades or embrace a new one. We chose the latter.

It wasn’t always simple, though. During long conversations, we mourned together. The three of us. Feeling the loss of all those years, the loss of all those seasons in life. Sometimes, sis and I had to express forgiveness again, in the midst of tears, due to the awareness of what could have been. So many chapters had come and gone without the name ‘Dad’ on our lips. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren were born. Our lives were full of life, full of memories, and Dad was not in any of them.

There were many firsts after that "forgiveness breakfast."Dancing with dad on a New Years Day, watching fireworks and oohing and awe-ing in between laughter and sips of champagne. Weekly lunches with my sister and dozens of sleep-overs with the three of us, watching Westerns and mystery movies. We cooked meals together, astounding Dad with our culinary skills, lol. During one Fall season, we even cut pumpkins together. He would sit and just watch us, a soft smile on his face.

We shared so much together in that short period of time. Getting to know both his strengths and his ‘not-so-strengths.' Many questions were answered, but many were still yet to ask. One of the things that Dad unashamedly shared with us, though, was his faith. His love for Jesus. And, his love for writing. Both of those things went hand in hand as he reveled us with stories of teaching and preaching God’s word.

During this time of getting to know Dad, I’d frequently see him lost in thought, a shadow of sorrow on his face. It was a fleeting look, gone the moment the sound of our voices or an escaped giggle pulled him back, instantly filling him with gratitude for the here and now.

Now Dad is with his Savior. He walks in a new season and has left us to finish out ours.

I reached for my sister’s hand. No words, just a shared heartbeat and unspoken understanding. Outside, even though the sun shone brightly, we felt the season turn. Holding the weight of loss, and the promise that love, love sprinkled with forgiveness, once planted, no matter what the season is, never truly dies.

"Changing Seasons"

by Amber Lambert

Fall in Alabama is hit or miss. There may be a day or two—maybe even a week, if we’re lucky—of cooler weather, followed by another few weeks of scorching heat lingering from summer. Being a fall girl, I specifically planned a trip to visit my aunt and uncle in Ohio during peak fall foliage. On the third Thursday of October, I headed north to view the changing leaves in all their splendor.

Ohio offered a slight reprieve from the heat and humidity, its trees decorated with reds, oranges, and yellows. A hike through the Bachelor Nature Preserve gave me beautiful views accompanied by the sounds of nature and bubbling brooks running here and there. I even mustered up the courage, despite my fear of heights, to cross the swinging bridge.

I was fortunate enough to be able to work while visiting family. I would wake up early, tiptoe upstairs, make coffee, tiptoe back downstairs, where I would sit with my Bible, read my devotion for the day, tiptoe back upstairs, grab a cup of coffee, and start my workday.

This particular fall had been a hard season. My grandmother, with whom I was extremely close, had been in the hospital and was later released to hospice care. She had been doing well, and everyone encouraged the trip.

“Take lots of pictures, so I can see what it’s like,” was my gran’s only instruction.

I took so many photos. I was so excited to share them with her. I called her every day, as I always had since moving away from home to college. She would ask what we had been doing, how my uncle and aunt were, what their house was like, and if they had good coffee.

On Tuesday, I called to chat with her, and her nurse answered the phone. “She’s sleeping. I’ll tell her you called.”

Wednesday morning, after I had fueled my car and made my way through Cincinnati, I called her again. 

“She’s not doing well,” her nurse told me. I made it home that evening and was up before dawn to drive to my granny’s house.

She had been in and out of consciousness for a few days, not really saying much. As I walked through the door, my mama told her, “Mama, Amber’s here.” She lifted her head and, in true granny fashion, said, “What took you so long?”

On Friday, the sun was shining, and the humidity was worse than ever. But overnight, a brisk fall wind blew in. As fall crept in quietly that night, my grandmother quietly left this world.

As the seasons changed overnight, so did my entire world.

At the funeral home, I asked to see her. I honestly don’t know how long I sat there, holding her hand and just talking to her. What I did know was that it was the very last time I would get to do either of those things, so I savored that time with her. Letting go of her hand and walking out of the room was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I prayed.
I helped pick out her clothes.
I prayed.
I helped plan her funeral.
I prayed.
I helped style her hair.
I prayed.
I did her makeup.
I prayed.

As the Lord so graciously reminds us in Ephesians, there is a season for everything.

Last fall was the hardest season of my life, but leaning into the Lord and His word also made that fall one of the sweetest seasons. Grief and joy can coexist, giving us some of the most beloved memories. Just as the seasons always change, so do our lives—but God’s love never does.

~~~

Thank you for reading this month's winning stories, and join in next month for the October Writing Challenge. Send us a poem based on one of these two themes: "Faith Over Fear" or "Darkness and Light." The deadline to submit is Oct. 28, and please send to scwritersconference@gmail.com with "October Challenge" in the subject line.

Congratulations again to our writers on a wonderful job!