This is just a season, I tell him. I silently pray my words don't fall flat.
For this is just a season. A time under the winnowing fork. A time of sifting, until all that remains glorifies Him.
I think back to summer days on my grandparents' farm. Granddaddy was gone early, caring for the tractors and the hogs. Near lunchtime I would take my post at the window, watching eagerly for his pickup to return. I'd fidget while he ate his lunch, drank the cold milk that kept bones strong for his work. When he was done, I'd scurry out the door. We walked the fields together, checking the progress of each row. Granddaddy knew the harvest was still to come, but he never stopped working. He redeemed the time.
I stare at a picture of my grandfather, his boyish grin lighting up the smoothness of face I never saw. The young man is unfamiliar to me, but I can look into those eyes and see the patience he wore like a second skin. I imagine his leathery deep voice telling me The harvest is coming. For now, redeem the time.
I resolve to do just that. To quit waiting for what will be and to live in what is. To realize that our lives haven't been put on hold and to know that we are living. To stop saying when he graduates... and to start seeing each day for the beautiful miracle it is. To stop saying no to the present, for it truly is a gift.
When harvest time came, Granddaddy could look back on the days of caring and maintaining the fields and smile. He could treasure the memories of that season and know the satisfaction of a job well done.
May it be so in my home, Lord. May it be so.