A time to grieve and a time to dance

 Grief has a way of arriving quietly. It doesn't always knock. Sometimes it slips in through the cracks of an ordinary day - a memory that catches you off guard, a conversation that stirs something tender, a moment when you realize life has shifted in a way you didn't expect. 

Ecclesiastes calls this "a time to grieve." It's not a mistake or a detour. A time - a season God Himself acknowledges as part of the fabric belonging to the human story. 

Grief isn't only about loss. Sometimes it's about change. Sometimes it's about letting go of what once felt certain. Sometimes it's about recognizing that a chapter has ended, even if you weren't ready to close the book. And God doesn't rush us through these moments. He sits with us in the ache, steady and present, letting us feel what needs to be felt. 

But Scripture pairs grief with soemthign surprising - something almost wild in its contrast. 

It pairs grief with dancing. 

Not the polished or choreographed kind. But the kind that rises from deep joy - the kind that comes when God brings light back into the dim places. 

Dancing is a declaration that: 

• sorrow doesn't get the final word
• joy still has a seat at the table
• God restores what once felt broken

Sometimes the dance comes just as slowly as a Viennese Waltz across the ballroom - a small lift in your spirit, a moment of laughter you didn't expect, a sense of hope returning like a soft sunrise. And sometimes it comes suddenly, like a burst of joy that reminds you you're still alive, still growing, still held. 

Sisters, both seasons are holy. They shape us and reveal the tenderness that can only come from God. 

If today is a grieving day, let those tears fall and remember that God is near. 

However, if today is a dancing day, let the joy rise. God is near there too. 

And if your heart is holding both - grief in one hand and joy in the other - you, my sister, are standing in one of the most sacred places of all. 

God meets us in the mourning just liek he meets us in the celebratory dancing. And, you know what? He carries us gently between the two. 

A time to cry and a time to laugh

There are days when the world feels heavy in our hands. You wake up with that quiet ache in your chest - the kind that doesn't announce itself loudly, but settles in like a gray morning. Sometimes it's a memory that stirs it. Sometimes it's a disappointment you thought you'd already healed from. And sometimes it's just life being life, reminding us that our heaerts are tender places. 

Ecclesiastes calls this "a time to cry." 
Not a failure. 
Not a setback. 
A time - a season God Himself acknowledges and makes room for. 

Tears are not signs of weakness; they are signs of release, they wash out what we've been carrying too long. They soften the soil of our hearts so something new can grow. And God meets us there - not with impatience, but with presence. He sits with us in the quiet, letting the tears fall without rushing us toward the next thing. 

But Scripture doesn't leave us in the crying. 
It pairs it with laughter - holy, healing laughter. 

There comes a moment, sometimes small and unexpected, when joy slips back in. Maybe it's a memory that warms instead of wounds. Maybe it's a conversation that lifts your spirit. Maybe it's the way sunlight lands across your kitchen table and reminds you that God still paints beauty into ordinary days. 

This is "a time to laugh." 
Not forced. 
Not pretend. 
But real, gentle joy that rises after the tears have done their work. 

Sisters, both seasons are sacred. 
Both are held by God. 
Both shape us into women who feel deeply, love deeply, and trust deeply. 

If today is a crying day, let the tears come. God is near. 
If today is a laughing day, let the joy rise. God is near there too. 

And if your heart is holding both at once - welcome to the holy tension where God often does His most tender work. 

A time to tear down and a time to build up

 I've been thinking lately about how God sometimes nudges us to clean out the corners of our hearts the same way we clean out a room. You open a drawer and suddenly realize how much junk you've been holding onto - old fears, outdated expectations, storeis that no longer fit who you're becoming. 

Ecclesiastes calls this "a time to tear down." 

Not in anger. Not in punishment. 

But in love.

God gently helps us dismantle what's been weighing us down so He can maake room for something new. And then, slowly, He begins to build. 

He builds peace where chos once lived. 

He builds joy inin places that felt forgotten. 

He builds strength in the very spots that once felt fragile. 

Sisters, if you're in a season where things feel like they're coming apart, breathe. You are not falling apart - you are being cleared out for renewal. And if you're in a season of building, ceelebrate every small beam of progress. God is crafting something beautiful in you. 

May we welcome both the tearing down and the building up, trusting that God is shaping us wiht tenderness and purpose. 

A time to kill and a time to heal

There are moments in Scripture that speak directly to the quiet battles inside us, and Ecclesiastes 3:3 is one of them. 

"A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up" ~Ecclesiastes 3:3

At first glance, the words feel harsh - almost jarring. But when you look closer, you realize Solomon isn't talking about physical violence. He's talking about the spiritual work God does in the hidden places of the heart. The kind of work that requires courage, honesty, and surrender. The kind of work that asks us to lay down what harms us so God can restore what's been wounded. 

For me, this verse became real in a season where forgiveness was not easy. I didn't have the greatest upbringing, and for a long time, I carried anger I didn't know how to release. It felt justified. It felt protective. It felt like a shield I had learned to hold. But overtime, that anger became heavy. It became a burden instead of a defense. It became something God gently asked me to confront. 

And that, sisters, is where the "kill" comes in. 

A time to kill

There are things in our lives God never intended for us to carry - bitterness, resentment, anger, fear, shame, unforgiveness. They take root quietly, but they grow loudly. They steal peace. They cloud perspective. They choke out joy. And if left unattended, they become spiritual weeds that suffocate the good God is trying to grow. 

"For if you live by its dictates, you will die. But if through the power of the Spirit you put to death the deeds of your sinful nature, you will live." ~Romans 8:13

Putting something to death - spiritually - is not violent. It is intentional. It's decisive. It's choosing to uproot what no longer serves your growth. It's choosing to release what has held you back. It's choosing to let God remove what you were never meant to carry. 

For me, killing anger meant acknowledging it, naming it, and surrendering it. It meant letting God dismantle the walls I had built. It meant choosing forgiveness - not because the past was okay, but because I wanted to be free. 

Forgiveness is spiritual warfare, but it is also a spiritual healing my soul never knew it needed. 

A time to heal

Once anger was uprooted, God began to mend what had been wounded. Healing didn't' come all at once. It came gently - in moments of clarity, in moments of peace, in moments where I realized the weight I had carried was finally gone. 

"He heals the brokenhearted and bandages their wounds." ~Psalm 147:3

Healing is God's specialty. 

Restoration is His rhythm. 

Renewal is His promise. 

We are reminded: 

"The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me, for the Lord has appointed me to bring good news to the poor." ~Isaiah 61:1

In this verse, Isaiah is reminding us that Jesus came to bind up the brokenhearted - not just to save our souls, but to heal our wounds. Furthermore, we are reminded that in Christ, we become new creations - not just patched-up versions of ourselves, but renewed, restored, transformed. 

"This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!" ~2 Corinthians 5:17

Healing is not passive. 

It is active. 

It is holy.

It is God taking what was broken and making it whole again. 

And sister, He wants to do the same for you. 

Maybe you're carrying something heavy - anger, hurt, disappointment, betrayal. Maybe you've held it for so long it feels like a part of you. maybe you're afraid to let it go because you don't know who you'll be without it. 

But Ecclesiastes 3:3 reminds us that there is a time to kill - a time to release what harms - and a time to heal - a time to let God restore what's been wounded. 

Forgiveness is not forgetting. 

Forgiveness is freedom. 

Forgiveness is healing. 

Forgiveness is
 

And God is ready to walk you through both the killing and the healing - gently, patiently, lovingly. 

A prayer for healing

Lord, 

Thank You for the seasons You lead us through - the ones where You ask us to release what harms us and the ones where You restore what has been wounded. Give us courage to confront what needs to be surrendered and peace to receive the healing You offer. Bind up every broken place. Mend every wound. Make us whole in You. 

~Amen

A time to plant and a time to uproot

There are seasons in life when God asks us to plant, and seasons when He asks us to uproot. Both feel holy. Both feel necessary. But only one feels comfortable. 

Uprooting is never easy. It means pulling something out of the soil - something familiar, something once-useful, something that may have been good for a time - and releasing it. It means loosening your grip on what no longer serves your growth. It means trusting that God sees what you cannot yet see beneath the surface. 

When I stepped into Sisters of Promise, it was a "do it afraid" moment for me. Kim once told the women of our church to step out afraid, and those words have stayed with me. I didn't feel ready. I didn't feel qualified. I didn't feel like I had anything special to offer. But I felt the nudge - that unmistakable tug of the Holy Spirit saying, This is your time to plant. 

And planting required courage. 

But before God invites us to plant something new, He often asks us to uproot something old. Sometimes it's fear. Sometimes it's the belief that someone else is more equipped, more capable, more called. Sometimes it's the quiet lie that whispers, You're not enough. 

I had to uproot all of that. 

Ecclesiastes 3:2b says there is a "time to plant and a time to harvest," and I've learned that these two seasons often sit side by side. You cannot plant new seeds in soil that's still crowded with old roots. You cannot grow fresh fruit in ground that's tangled with what used to be. You cannot step into a new calling while clinging to an old fear. 

"Today I appoint you to stand up against nations and kingdoms. Some you must uproot and tear down, destroy and overthrow. Others you must build up and plant." ~Jeremiah 1:10

God uses Jeremiah to deliver the message of both planting and uprooting as He appoints. He is present in both. He is purposeful in both. And we are reminded in John that even pruning - even the cutting away - is an act of love meant to help us bear more fruit. 

"He cuts off every branch of mine that doesn't produce fruit, and he prunes the branches that do bear fruit so they will produce even more." ~John 15:2

Uprooting is not a punishment. It is preparation. 

When I began Sisters of Promise, I felt like a gardener standing in a field I wasn't sure I belonged in. But God kept whispering, Plant here. And to plant here, I had to uproot the belief that ministry only happens in perfect places or perfect people. I had to uproot the fear of stepping out. I had to uproot the comfort of staying quiet. 

And once the soil was cleared, God began to show me what He wanted to grow. 

Sister, maybe you're in a season of uprooting. Maybe God is gently pulling something out of your life - a habit, a mindset, a fear, a relationship, a comfort zone - not to hurt you, but to make room for what He wants to plant next. Maybe He's preparing your soil for something new, something hopeful, something forward-moving. 

Or maybe you're in a planting season. Maybe God is asking you to step out afraid, to sow something small, to trust that He will grow what you place in His hands. Maybe He's inviting you to begin something that feels fragile, uncertain, or bigger than you imagined. 

Wherever you are, remember this: God is in the: 

• uprooting
• planting
• courage it takes to do both

And He will grow something beautiful in you - something lasting, something strong, something that carries His purpose - when you release what no longer serves you and make room for what He is planting next. 

A time to uproot. A time to plant. A time to trust the Gardener who knows exactly what your soil needs. 

A time to be born and a time to die

 Ecclesiastes 3:2 - A reflection on beginnings, endings, and the legacy God grows in between

There are verses in Scripture that make us pause - not because they're complicated, but because they're honest. Ecclesiastes 3:2 is one of them. 

"A time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to harvest." ~Ecclesiastes 3:2 (ESV)

Birth and death. Beginnings and endings. Joy and sorrow. Hope and grief.

Two moments that feel worlds apart, yet God holds both with the same steady hand. 

I used to read this verse and think only of the extremes - the first breath and the last. But if life has a way of teaching us that beginnings and endings aren't just events. They're seasons. They're transitions. They're moments where God writes something new, even when the page feels fragile. 

I learned this in a very real way when my youngest daughter, Madison Rose, was born. 

She arrived a bit early - 35 weeks - tiny, fragile, and fighting to breathe. Those first hours were terrifying. She needed a ventilator. Her left lung collapsed. She was whisked away to the NICU in Louisville while I was still in the hospital in Southern Indiana, unable to get to her, unable to hold her, unable to do anything but pray. On the day she collapsed her lung, my husband was in the waiting room trying to get to her when everything went wrong, and I remember feeling helpless in a way I had never felt before. 

Those eight days felt like a lifetime then and a lifetime away now. 

But even in that fragile beginning, God was teaching me something: life starts small, but small beginnings don't stay small when God is involved. 

Madison came home. She grew. She strengthened. She became the trailblazer she is today - bold, determined, full of fire and purpose. 

Her beginning was tiny, but her impact is anything but. 

And that's the perspective Ecclesiastes 3:2 invites us into. 

Birth is not just the start of life. Death is not just the end of it. Everything in between - the growing, the stretching, the becoming - is where legacy is formed. 

David put it like this: 

"You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed." ~Psalms 139:16 (ESV)

Every beginning. Every ending. Every chapter in between. God writes all of them with intention.

And we are reminded in John that even death is not final for those in Christ. 

"Jesus told her, 'I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying.'" ~John 11:25 (ESV)

Beginnings matter. Endings matter. But what God grows in the middle - that's where legacy lives. 

When I think of Madison's start, I don't think of fear anymore. I think of perspective. I think of how God uses the smallest beginnings to grow strength, courage, and purpose. I think of how He takes fragile moments and turns them into testimonies. 

And sister, He does the same in your life. 

Maybe you're: 

• in a beginning that feels small or uncertain. 
• in an ending that feels heavy or unexpected. 
• somewhere in the middle, trying to understand what God is growing in you. 

Wherever you are, Ecclesiastes 3:2 reminds us that God is present in every season - the ones that start with a whisper and the ones that close with a sigh. He is shaping your legacy in ways you may not see yet, but you will. 

Beginnings are seeds. Endings are harvests. And God is faithful in both. 

A prayer for perspective

Lord, 

thank You for the seasons You give us - the beginnings that feel fragile, the endings that feel heavy, and the middle places where You grow our legacy. Give us the perspective to see Your hand in every chapter. Strengthen us when beginnings feel small. Comfort us when endings feel painful. And remind us that You are writing a story of our lives that carries purpose, hope, and eternal impact. 

~Amen

There is a time for everything

How seasons teach us to trust and grow

Ecclesiastes 3:1 has a way of grounding us — reminding us that life doesn’t unfold in chaos, but in rhythms God understands even when we don’t.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1

When I sit with this verse, I’m reminded that every season carries a purpose. And often, that purpose is trust… and growth.

Not the kind we learn quickly. The kind we learn slowly — through real life, real questions, and real moments of surrender.

Trust Grows in the Seasons We Can’t Predict

Trust rarely grows in seasons where everything feels steady and clear. It grows in the seasons where we’re unsure, where we’re waiting, where we’re asking God to show us what comes next. It grows when plans shift, when doors open unexpectedly, when routines change, when we're asked to step into something unfamiliar, and when we feel God nudging us forward before we feel ready. 

Sometimes trust looks like taking one small step when we don’t see the whole path. Sometimes it looks like staying still when everything in us wants to rush ahead.

“A time to plant and a time to uproot…” — Ecclesiastes 3:2

Uprooting is uncomfortable. Planting is vulnerable. Both require trust. And both are part of how God grows us.

Growth Happens in the Seasons That Stretch Us

Growth isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s quiet — the kind you only notice when you look back and realize you’re not who you were before. Growth happens when patience deepens, when compassion expands, when resilience strengthens, when faith steadies, when perspective shifts, and when we learn to let go of what we thought life should look like. 

Growth often feels uncomfortable while it’s happening. But it’s purposeful.

And it’s part of God’s design.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time.” — Ecclesiastes 3:11

Some beauty we see now. Some beauty we see later. Some beauty we won’t understand until eternity.

But every season grows something in us — even the ones we didn’t choose.

Trust and Growth Work Together

Trust opens our hands. Growth fills them with something new.

Trust says, “Lord, I don’t know what You’re doing, but I believe You’re here.” Growth says, “Lord, thank You for who You’re shaping me to become.”

Trust steadies us. Growth strengthens us.

Trust anchors us. Growth expands us.

And both happen in seasons that feel unfamiliar, stretching, or slow.

Sister, if you’re in a season that feels uncomfortable or unclear, you’re not failing. You’re growing. You’re learning to trust. You’re being shaped gently and intentionally by a God who knows exactly what this season is meant to do in you.

You are seen. You are understood. And you are not walking this season alone.

A Prayer for Trust and Growth

Lord, teach us to trust You in the seasons we don’t understand. Help us grow in the places You’re stretching us, and help us see Your hand in the moments that feel uncertain. Shape our hearts gently, strengthen our faith deeply, and remind us that every season has purpose in Your timing. Amen.

Next Week: “A Time to Be Born and a Time to Die”

We’ll explore the tender truth behind beginnings and endings — and how God holds both with equal care.