It is only for a season, though it may feel like forever. That’s a truth I cling to in hard times. Maybe it’s a word of hope you need to hear today, too.

Our son came down the driveway yesterday pulling a huge gooseneck flatbed trailer behind his gigantic work truck. I took his dramatic arrival in stride, it being 1 in a long string of dramatic arrivals that began with his birth in 1982.

My response to his first arrival wasn’t nearly as calm. I cried for hours after our baby was diagnosed with a life-threatening birth condition and flown 750 miles away for surgery. I cried at the first glimpse of him in NICU. I cried often as he endured surgery after surgery and procedure after procedure until his condition stabilized. I worried that my husband and I weren’t doing enough for our son.

That I wasn’t a good mom.
That he might die.
That our lives and his would always be wrapped up in caregiving and hospital stays and setbacks.

With time and distance, I can see that not only were my worries baseless, they obscured the truth.

That my husband and I were doing all we could for our baby.
That I was a good mom persevering during difficult circumstances.
That our son was alive and growing.
That this was a just a season of his life and of ours.

It was not forever.

Then I didn’t know that one day my son would park his gigantic truck and gooseneck trailer in a grassy spot in our acreage.
Then I didn’t know he would be sporting a bushy beard, a ponytail, and a farmer hat.
Then I didn’t know he would give me a big hug and say, “Are you ready to visit grandma?”
Then I didn’t know he would greet my mother, who’s health began failing a few months ago with great tenderness.
Then I didn’t know that after an hour of showing her pictures of his kids and his farm and playing Uno, he would notice that she was tired.
Then I didn’t know that he would kiss her with great tenderness and say, “I love you, Grandma. I love you.”

Now I do know–and he knows to–that his grandma’s illness is only for a season. A season, not for crying and worrying, but for loving well. For playing Uno. For sharing old memories and making new ones. For laughing and smiling. For hugs and kisses. For holding hands.

Whatever the difficult circumstances you are, whatever the reason for your tears and your worries, whatever loss you are facing, I want you to cling to this truth.

It is only for a season.
It may be a hard season.
It may be an unwanted season.
It may be a season of loss.
But it is only for a season.

Right now, you can’t imagine what waits on the other side of this season. 

But it will come.
It may be totally unexpected. 
But it will come.
It will be the fruits of seeds being planted in your present hardship. 
It will come.
And it will be good.

For our momentary, light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory 
far beyond all comparison, 
while we look not at the things which are seen, 
but at the things which are not seen; 
for the things which are seen are temporal, 
but the things which are not seen are eternal.
2 Corinthians 4:17-18

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