For Everything There is a Season

I went to college to play basketball and major in music. The two don’t often go hand in hand – sports and music – but I was determined to show the world that a “sporty musician” could exist. Just a few weeks into the semester, I was running down the basketball court and suddenly collapsed in excruciating pain. My assumption that I simply twisted something was proven very wrong when I couldn’t walk the next morning. Within a few days, I discovered my knee was torn up so badly that two surgeries would be required to reconstruct the damage. And I was told no more contact sports.

“Like, ever?” was what I asked the doctor.

“Like, ever,” was his response.

I spent the rest of the semester hobbling around on crutches with a massive cast on my left leg. Because of several ice storms and a broken elevator whilst living on the fourth floor of the dorm, I just stopped going to most of my classes. In December I received a letter from the head of the music department:

“We regret to inform you that we will not be renewing your scholarship, and your position in the program has been filled by another student.”

 So, I tore up the letter and dropped it at the foot of the professor.

Just kidding. I didn’t do that. But I really, really wanted to. Instead, I worked off my anger and frustration by hobbling up four flights of stairs on my crutches and then retreated to my dorm room, ignoring the reality that I was missing yet another class.

I remember sitting in front of the window in my dorm room and feeling lost. Students walked to and fro and did so with such purpose. They seemed to carry themselves with a confidence that said, I have a plan. But I no longer had a plan, and nothing that had occurred in the months prior made sense to me. Feeling a deep sadness, I called my dad and asked him if I could come home for Christmas break a bit early. As was typical of my dad, his response was straightforward and left little room for negotiating: “Nope. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Kate, I’m praying for direction for you.” I will never forget the softening in my heart when he told me he was praying for me. It’s probably the only thing that kept me from throwing my phone across the room.

This was not the last time in my life that things did not go according to my best laid plans. Time and time again, I’m confronted with the hard reality that I am not in control. I’m not sure why that particular lesson does not just sink in once and for all, but it’s a hard one for me to contend with. Whether it’s an unexpected change in the schedule, an illness that dramatically alters plans, or even a child that doesn’t follow a path that I deem “right,” all these have been constant reminders that I am not in control of what tomorrow holds.

God’s Promise

Thankfully, we serve a God who holds every detail of tomorrow in His hands. My husband recently preached a sermon on Ecclesiastes 3, and I asked a question that I know many have asked of their pastors: Did you write that sermon for me?

I sat listening intently, clinging to every truth that was spoken and have since found myself spilling over the words in this chapter from Ecclesiastes. “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” The writer could not have said it more clearly: God’s timing is not always our timing, but for everything that we encounter in this life – every death we watch, every breath we are given, every relationship that is broken, and every laugh we bellow – it all occurs under the direction of our Father who promises that all things work together for our good.

He works all things together for our good. The difficult times do not occur because of a lack of faith or because of something bad we did; they occur because God is weaving together a perfectly beautiful picture for His children which includes both birth and death, sorrow and laughter. What tomorrow holds is already completely and rightly ordained by our loving and merciful God.

What, then, have we to fear?

 Our Responsibility

If God holds the details of tomorrow in His hands, then our responsibility is not to fret over what the future might bring but live as faithfully as we can in today. That’s so much easier said than done when our lives are marked by constant planning for tomorrow, next week, even months and years from now. The planning is not the problem; in fact, the book of Proverbs is clear that there is wisdom in planning for the future. The crux of the matter is whether or not we are able to put our plans at the foot of the cross and trust in a loving Father who may direct our path differently than what we had intended.

“The time we are in right now is exactly the time God wants us to be in right now. The prayer of our heart should be, ‘Lord, what do I need to learn right now, today, in this moment I’m in?” These were the words from the pulpit that made me wonder if the sermon was written just for me. The questions in my heart usually don’t reflect this kind of faithfulness; instead, I’m prone to only ask: Why this, Lord? And Why Now?

I suspect I’m not alone in these questions. I asked them back in college and for a time neglected to see how God was orchestrating everything in my life to teach me, mold me, and direct me. I would have never entered the world of writing through a newly declared major had I not had that knee injury.  And I still ask the same questions today, but God continues to mercifully work on my heart.

One of the most stunning verses in Ecclesiastes 3 is found in verse 11: “He has made everything beautiful in its time.”  Our responsibility in the varying seasons is not to respond angrily or live in a perpetual state of doubt when there is suffering, and it’s not to fret about when the proverbial “other shoe” might drop when life is going well, but in each season, we’re called to live faithfully in today knowing that God is making our stories beautiful in His perfect time and in His perfect way. Today is what we’ve been given. Today is what is unfolding before us, today has the activities that beg for our trust in Jesus, and tomorrow is in His hands.