Be encouraged. Our hope, our certainty, is in God, even when storms are raging. 

I’m writing this in the midst of a storm. Hurricane Dorian has been lurking for the last week and we are just now getting bands of wind and rain. We prepped and waited as it lashed the Bahamas, but the storm’s turned and, gratefully, we won’t get a direct hit.

Storms in life aren’t always so easy. Those usually come unannounced, washing over us with such fury that they threaten to pull us under completely. They leave a trail of destruction and often, life is never the same again.

Maybe you’ve had one of those storms?

Ours came a few years ago, in the midst of a glorious, ordinary summer.

I woke in the dark morning hours to the sounds of my husband’s heavy breathing and with eyes still closed, I reached over and nudged him.

“It’s just a nightmare, Hon. It’s okay.” A few seconds later, more awake, I realized this was not nightmare breathing and when I jumped out of bed to flip on the overhead light, I could see instantly that something was very wrong.

I went into storm management mode. “Nick, dial 9-1-1. Seth, run down and get our fireman neighbor. Rachel, take the little kids upstairs.”

As the 9-1-1- operator talked me through CPR on speakerphone and I counted out the compressions, my head swirled to take in the gravity of what was happening. Surely, I was not giving CPR to the rock of our family, the only man I’d ever dated, the amazing father to our seven kids.

“I love you, Dan. We love you,” I said through tears and through compressions. Was he still with us? If these were the last words he heard, I wanted him to know.

Within minutes the paramedics arrived and took over. I paced the living room in my nightgown. “Please, God, have mercy on us. Please Lord, give us your mercy.” Over and over I begged God out loud to spare us.

When the paramedics took Dan to the hospital, I went upstairs to see my kids before following the ambulance. The scene in their bedroom crushed my heart all over again. Six kids from four to 17 years old were on the floor together, each audibly sobbing. My oldest was at camp, still blissfully unaware of the black clouds hanging over our family.

Everything in me wanted to assure them their dad would be okay, but as the words formed on my tongue, I realized I couldn’t promise it. So, I did the only thing I could. I prayed with them. Then I hugged each one and told them I would be back.

Not long after arriving at the ER, I was called back to the room you never want to go into. A kind doctor came in, telling me they’d worked for over an hour but had never been able to revive Dan.

And in that moment, this storm we never saw coming engulfed all of life as we knew it.

Tomorrow’s plans, next week’s list, all our hopes and shared vision for our family were gone and would never be again.

What do you do in this kind of storm?

Honestly, part of me wanted to curl up and just let it wash over. It was too big, and I felt utterly helpless with the tasks ahead of me.

I had no idea how to lead my preschoolers, tweens, and teens through their grief, let alone try to grapple with mine. The future I thought would always be there now felt like a sheer drop off. I had so much fear for our finances, for decisions, for my children’s health.

How in the world would God fix eight broken hearts?

I had prayed for God to spare us from the storm. Begged him for his mercy and yet, in his sovereignty, God had neither spared my husband nor our gut-wrenching grief.

But I found God’s mercy everywhere.

His mercy met me each morning as I clung to his word and his promises, giving me just enough hope to show up for my kids and meet the tasks of that day.

He brought Bible stories and scripture I’d memorized to mind with new insight that lifted my heavy heart.

Multiples times, God gave me words to say to my children and others that felt like a direct download.

God met countless needs as they came up – a new to us car, college expenses for my kids, money for Christmas, and perfect part-time work.

His mercy showed up in the body of Christ who brought meals, who prayed faithfully, who took my sons fishing and cheered for my daughter, who came to clean the house or carol on the lawn at Christmas, who helped with driving and surprised us with flower beds on Mother’s Day.

In a thousand tender ways, God’s mercy has carried us.

As I listen to the last of the wind gusting outside my window, I’m reminded that God’s mercy never guarantees the storms of life will bypass us completely.

God will not spare us from every storm.

But God’s mercy is promised, and those mercies will meet every need, every fear, every weakness we encounter in the storm.

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23 (ESV)

Lisa Appelo is a speaker, writer and Bible teacher who inspires women to deepen their faith in grief and find hope in the hard. Eight years ago, Lisa became a sudden widow and single mom to 7. She’s passionate about rich Bible study and teaches a weekly ladies Bible class at First Baptist Church, Jacksonville. She’s a speaker with She Found Joy and has been published at Proverbs 31 Ministries, (in)courage, Risen Motherhood and more.

As a former litigating attorney, her days are now filled with parenting, ministry, writing, speaking and running enough to justify lots of dark chocolate. Find Lisa’s encouragement for faith, grief and hope at LisaAppelo.com and on Instagram @lisaappelo.

The post How to Hope in a Storm appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

This is the fourth article in our summer series, Stories of Hope–modern stories of people who placed their hope in Christ and felt–at first–disappointed with his plan, purpose, or timing much like the biblical characters of my book Remarkable Hope.

It’s my pleasure to introduce Glenna Marshall (again…she was a guest in November of 2018 as well!). Glenna is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is a singer, songwriter and the author of a brand new book: The Promise is His Presence: Why God is Always Enough, which I was privileged to read!

It is a stellar, biblical companion for anyone wrestling with deferred hope or grieving the life you thought you wanted. 

Glenna has walked through infertility, chronic illness, and stressful relationships. As the struggles piled up, she discovered a life-giving promise and she’s shared it with us in her book. You’ll be encouraged by Glenna’s story of finding the certainty God gives even while we struggle. She’s talked about it on the Hope + Help podcast. (iTunes)

Here’s Glenna…

These are slow summer days, stretching long at the ends from first light to last. We drink them in deep swallows, savoring the absence of hurried schedules before school begins again. We sleep later than normal and wear pajamas longer than we should. The hours unspool without our notice or care. It seems a luxury.

I’ve not had such a peaceful summer in years, and I couldn’t put my finger on the reason until I remembered the shroud of pain that used to wrap me up tight with fear and misery. The familiar heaviness of summer heat has settled over our low corner of Missouri, a wool blanket dipped in boiling water and hung out to steam and dry above our heads. It’s hard to get a good breath when the air is so hot and wet. In being well these past three years, I’ve nearly forgotten the summers past when I struggled to separate the heat of a southern summer with the fire that encased my spine.

It was always hot, inside and out.

Four summers past, I was on the brink of a breakdown. My health had deteriorated to the point I was losing my hair, struggling to remember things, sleeping only an hour or two at night, wrestling with pain like it was my full-time job. Physically, I was wrecked. I was also losing my grip on faith. I’d been in pain for years, but in my sixth year of it I didn’t think I could take it anymore.

What if God never healed me?

I was sorely tempted to hold hands with bitterness. Bitterness is the knee-jerk response to suffering and easily justified when your present and future only look like pain. But bitterness is a difficult root to kill, the kind of plant nobody wants in their garden, a tangle of vines that spreads with ferocity. Bitterness is the kudzu of discontentment. At its best, kudzu cloaks the world in greenery, turning trees into stooped giants with draping, viny arms. It kills everything underneath, but it’s not until winter when we see the degree of damage. Kudzu inhabits what it covers. And I know that bitterness works the same, inhabiting the heart with tightly wound tendrils that suffocate life and light.

I was afraid of the kudzu effects of bitterness in my life. Desperate for relief from the inferno in my spine, I turned with halting steps and faltering prayers to Christ. I opened my Bible with fierce determination to come away changed. The believing part of me knew Jesus was the one to run to, but the doubting part of me couldn’t hold His gaze. I felt like Peter in Matthew 14, sinking in the Sea of Galilee, unable to take my eyes off the choppy, churning waves. But Jesus was Jesus, chastising my weak faith while also holding on to me. His grip was stronger than bitterness, His gaze steadier than mine. His strength overrode my weakness.

When I searched Scripture for some kind of promise that life would get better, I learned that the promise this side of heaven was better than ease or relief.

As I walked the floor in pain, His words ran through my mind over and over again.

I am with you always. (Matthew 28:20)

I will never leave or forsake you. (Deuteronomy 31:6, Hebrews 13:5)

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. (Isaiah 43:2)

I will be with you in trouble. (Psalm 91:15)

Nothing can separate you from My love, not things present or things to come. (Romans 8:35, 38)

While I waited long for healing, He held fast to me. He did it in every turn of the page in my worn Bible. He did it when I struggled to pin down the words to pray. He was present. Visibly, no. But in every way I needed, He was present because He has promised to be, even (and maybe especially) in pain and doubt. In the white-fisted vise of pain, I learned that Christ could sustain me. He could hold my gaze and teach me to hold His. He could deepen my faith when He reminded me who He was. And more valuable than a pain-free existence was the certainty that God was always with me.

I wasn’t healed that summer. My pain worsened, actually. It would be another year before I would begin to experience pain’s release. It slipped away slowly, hesitant to leave me, I guess. And then one morning, I woke with a jolt and scrambled to name the startling absence I felt. It was nothing. I felt nothing. Instead of a body on fire, there was just a body. I turned to the clock in a room bathed in bright morning light and realized I’d slept all night for the first time in six years.

When new trials press in so hard that bitterness begins to leak out, I stop to remember the way I called out to the Lord to heal me and the way He responded by being with me instead. I remember the words He spoke long ago that He would be with us in every dark valley of shadow and death. His words of promise and presence. Words I needed then, words I need now. Words that remind me that He is enough for every pain we feel.

Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence: Why God is Always Enough. Connect with Glenna on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, or on her website.

The post What is God’s promise in my pain? appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

I asked Yolanda to share her story because in an onslaught of devastation, her hope was shattered. But, as you may expect by now, when her hope was hijacked, Jesus swooped in to redefine and revive her hope in him.

Dolls and stuffed animals lined the foot of the bed as my sister and I held a conversation with our “children.” Like most little girls, we dreamed of the day we’d meet Mr. Wonderful, say, “I do,” wear lipstick and high heels, and pack our houses full of cribs and high chairs. We dressed our babies, shushed and burped them, and told them how much we loved them.

Twenty years later I was living the dream. I’d married a pastor. We had children by adoption and birth, and being a mom was my greatest joy. My wildest childhood prayers had become my reality.

But along with the fairytale came a sudden wave of terror. I’d never considered the possibility I might fail at parenting. What if my children turned out “wrong”? My worst fear was that someday they might abandon Christ and live for the world.

Parenting fears are normal, but mine were rooted in a false belief system. I had married into a cultish sect of fundamentalism that worshiped a transactional god. This god poured blessings on those who diligently followed his precepts and meted out chastisement for folks who strayed from his ways. I trusted Christ for my salvation, but I fell under the pressure of striving to please him and constantly earn his favor by my good works.

These notions played out in my parenting something like this: if I trained my children well, God would bless my efforts and all my kids would grow up to love and serve him. We would be an example of what a godly family should be. When they were grown, they would “rise up and call me blessed.” If I failed in parenting, I would reap the consequences. My children would bring me shame and sorrow, and I’d carry a heavy heart for all my days.

From the earliest days of parenting I recognized I had no ability to produce godly children on my own, and I thought I placed my hope in Christ to get us to the finish line. Nothing on earth was more precious than family, except a family rooted in Christ.

But hope in Christ, when tangled with the subtle skewing of scriptures, eventually becomes a cheap imitation. The thing I hoped FOR—a godly family—became the thing I hoped IN. If my children were spirit-filled Christ followers, it would indicate I had followed the precepts set before me in scripture, and God couldn’t help but be pleased with me.  We would portray a picture of “successful” Christian living and what it meant to wholly follow Jesus. Faulty theology fueled both my fears and my pride.

I had also unwittingly placed my hopes in the teaching of my church. Our denomination believed we were the one group of Christians with the right Bible and the right doctrine. I was clueless how arrogant (and wrong) that statement was.

And when the children of other church members rebelled? Walked away from the faith? Those parents had surely done something wrong or harbored some secret sin. I observed their perceived failures from a distance and worried I might have missed something in my own parenting. I begged the Lord to spare my family from the same outcome. If I asked, he would surely answer.

Then life blew up in my face.

My husband was arrested on criminal charges. He’d done the unthinkable, and overnight I became a single mom with a passel of kids.

We were now a family devastated by sin and crime, separation and shame. My children were hurt tremendously, and the godly foundation I’d hoped to give them had gone up in smoke. I went from being a pastor’s wife—someone others looked up to—to being a criminal’s wife, then a divorcèe—someone despised and pitied.

All my efforts to raise a godly family had backfired, and the promises of God seemed to fall short. I cried out to him in anger and confusion. “I tried my best to obey you, and look where it got me! Is this how you bless those who try to live for you?”

But the moment I became a single mom, stepped away from the fundamentalist cult, and was truly “on my own” the Lord swooped in like the hero I always hoped he’d be. He was husband and father, protector and provider. He showed me the truth that had gotten buried by years of lies. I was insufficient, but he was indescribably sufficient. Pleasing him was not his ultimate goal for me. Rather, it was knowing and enjoying him.  My hope had long since slipped down a glassy slope until it rested on a different patch of ground altogether. And now Jesus tenderly picked up the pieces and showed me he was my place of rest and healing.

He’d never left me, but I had lost sight of the gracious, loving Father he had always been. I’d misunderstood his expectations for me. Ours had been a religion of performance and image protection. And now I lived in freedom and a NEW hope, based on the truth and grace Jesus offered. “And since it is through God’s kindness, then it is not by their good works. For in that case, God’s grace would not be what it really is—free and undeserved.” (Romans 11:6, NLT)

My hope was no longer wrapped up in producing a godly family. I loved my children, whole or damaged, believing or unbelieving, and my identity wasn’t linked to my achievement as a mother. I could give my best parenting efforts to my children and, no matter how they turned out, Christ loved me the same.

Jesus was all I needed, and this hope transcended relationships and outcomes. I found peace in knowing he was sovereign.

Six years ago God allowed me to marry an amazing man, and we have a blended family of a dozen kids. Our children range from spirit-filled to slightly rebellious, solid citizens to desperate wanderers. They look nothing like the godly family I envisioned years ago, but my hope—and God’s love—isn’t based on their performance or mine.

God is the perfect father. And when his first children rebelled, he implemented his eternal plan. That plan included a cross, where Jesus took my guilt and shame and replaced it with peace and assurance of his great love for me. So, whether my family looks “put together” or a shambled mess, he loves and cares for me. Whether my children adore him or abhor him, God loves them better than I ever will, and that’s where I fully place my hope.

Yolanda enjoys life in the foothills of North Carolina. In a “Yours, Mine & Ours” spin, she and her husband are parents to a combined total of twelve children. Yolanda serves on her church’s worship team, is a freelance editor, and writes in the cracks of life. She is currently revising her first novel featuring historical Appalachian fiction. A former member of a legalistic, cultish church, Yolanda is passionate about helping people find freedom in Christ. She is also enthusiastic about reading good books and correcting bad grammar. You can connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter or Goodreads.

The post When Your Hope Gets Hijacked appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

Chasing Hope through a Journey of Grief

I was standing in the community garden on a field trip with my daughter’s second grade class when I received the phone call. My husband’s voice on the other end was hushed, notably different from his typical playful and loud coaching voice.

Results of biopsy. Melanoma cancer. I stood there frozen between the rows of kale and corn, holding a bag of water bottles for the kids. My healthy, athletic husband had cancer. At 40. I felt the wind knocked clear out of me. The fear started to suffocate me.

We had known for weeks about this strange bump on his right hip. I witnessed him experiencing increasing discomfort in that area, but we had believed as many had told us that this was a torn muscle. I had never let my mind wander to the C-word. My first instinct was to sink into a heap right there in the garden and cry. I had no idea what God was doing, but I knew He intended to use our story for His glory. I had to choose to push back the fear and cling to hope.

Clinging to Hope as our Anchor

As the summer progressed, so did my husband’s cancer. After a pet scan we learned that his cancer was in stage four. The cancer had already spread to his lymph nodes and spots were showing on his lungs. We canceled our mission trip to Haiti and our summer vacation. My husband stepped down from his jobs directing a non-profit and coaching at the CrossFit gym. We visited lots of doctors and considered lots of treatments. One way I chose hope in those moments was to bathe myself and my fears in God’s word.

A mentor of mine encouraged me years ago to make a little notebook of scriptures to read when I was fearful or anxious. In the doctor’s office and the hospital room, at home and in the car, I read these truths over my husband. I memorized them. These meditations lifted us out of the mental battle, the worst-case scenario fears that threatened to sink our ship.

The book of Hebrews talks about hope as an anchor: “Therefore, we who have fled to him for refuge can have great confidence as we hold to the hope that lies before us. This hope is a strong and trustworthy anchor for our souls” (Hebrews 6:18-19). During these months, as I watched my husband and all our dreams as a couple and family quickly deteriorating, I ran to my Heavenly Father for refuge. While everything felt uncertain, he was my confidence and strength. I knew He had been faithful in the past. My boat was weary and whipped by the stormy waters, floundering in the wind, but surprisingly my anchor was secure.

Hope journeys hand-in-hand with faith. Hope believes in the unseen. Hope is a confident expectation in the loving and deliberate work of the Father. It’s leaning into the pain and trusting the outcome. My husband took a giant leap into Heaven on September 9, 2014. That was certainly not the outcome I prayed for or expected.

After my husband’s death, I wrestled with God. Hundreds of people across the globe had prayed for my husband’s healing, and it didn’t come. But God was patient with me. If He could handle the bold prayers of Paul, the emotional prayers of David, and the heart cries of Job, then He could handle my doubting, imperfect, raw prayers.

Over time, I was reminded that just because we pray doesn’t mean we get our way. We don’t put in a certain amount of time on the prayer time clock to gain a certain outcome. In fact, the purpose of prayer is not to persuade God to do things our way; it’s to draw close to the Heavenly Father and sit in His presence. There in His presence, I found tender shoots of hope.

Grieving with Hope

I know I cling to a different kind of hope than many people have. My grief is different from someone who does not have faith because I grieve with hope. I grieve believing I will see my Ericlee in the future. I draw hope from the knowledge that if we commit our lives to following Jesus Christ and share Him with others, our separation from loved ones on earth through death will only be temporary.

I have always loved the Bible story of Ruth. It’s a story of redemption. A story of beauty from ashes. An unexpected love story. A story of hope. Ruth takes refuge under the wings of God (Ruth 2:12), and He provides miraculously for her. When her husband dies, she remains loyal to her mother-in-law and takes a bold step to follow the God of Israel. The radical choice she makes to follow her mother-in-law, Naomi, helps her break loose from the chains of poverty.  Through her hard work and integrity, she gains not just food but also the attention of a man named Boaz.

Not by accident I found myself reading the book of Ruth in the months following my husband’s death when I was learning to navigate my own grief. Although I had studied the book before, it gained new meaning for me as a widow. I read the story with fresh eyes and discovered something distinct: Ruth grieves with hope. Once a worshipper of pagan gods, she steps into God’s plan for her future. She experiences redemption and is grafted into the family tree of Jesus Christ. Her choices also bring hope and new life for her mother-in-law Naomi.

I began to pray that God would help me to live with courage like Ruth. Three years ago, through a wild weaving together of threads in my life, I married one of my late husband’s best friends, Shawn. He was a single friend who we had prayed for through the years. I believed God had a special woman for Shawn to marry one day. I never imagined it would be me!

Shawn has courageously walked through grief with my daughters and me. He has joined us in the daily dance of joy and pain. He has provided comfort, companionship and confidence where we needed it most. My girls love him as their new daddy. His presence in our lives is a daily reminder that we serve a God of hope who always holds our future in His hands.

Dorina Lazo Gilmore is the author of two Bible studies, Glory Chasers and Flourishing Together. She is also published children’s book author, speaker, blogger, runner, justice seeker, and mama to three active girls – ages 7, 10 and 13. Dorina is passionate about helping people navigate grief and flourish in their callings. Connect with Dorina at www.DorinaGilmore.com or on her Facebook author page. You can also find her sharing about daily life on Instagram as @DorinaGilmore.

The post Chasing Hope through Grief appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

This is the first article in our summer series, Stories of Hope–modern stories of people who placed their hope in Christ and felt–at first–disappointed with his plan, purpose, or timing much like the biblical characters of Remarkable Hope.

I’m thrilled to introduce Christine Chappell. Christine is the author of Clean Home, Messy Heart, the host of The Hope + Help Project podcast, and is a guest contributor at Desiring God. She writes frequently about depression, motherhood, and counseling topics at her blog, has completed biblical counseling certificates with the Institute for Biblical Counseling & Discipleship, and is currently pursuing certification with the Association of Certified Biblical Counselors. Christine lives with her husband and three children in South Carolina.

Christine also curates weekly Christ-centered mental health resources for her subscribers. If you’re looking for gospel hope & help for facing mental health challenges, please click here to learn more and subscribe to Christine’s helpful email deliveries.

Be encouraged by our first Story of Hope presented by Christine M. Chappell.

I felt abandoned by God for more than five weeks. I asked friends to pray the prayers I couldn’t mutter myself, hoping they’d rub off on me while rising like incense to the One who hid his face behind the clouds. I’d battled depression on and off for years, but this go-round was different. Darker. Deeper. Disorienting. Dangerous.

All these years and dips and highs and lows and I never wanted much help. I wanted to will my emotional stability and weave God’s truth into a beautiful testimony of wellness—on my terms. I wanted to stand high on the mountaintop of victory and dance before the Lord with all my might (2 Samuel 6:14), having achieved a pinnacle of mental freedom through Christ. Finally in control. Finally level. Finally well.

But there was no dancing, just the suicidal tremblings of a desperate soul sobbing on the bathroom floor. Instead of pinnacles of freedom, there were crevices of despair. Instead of yearning for change, I ached to disappear from the sorrow and the stains and the shame of my sheer mortality. Self-help was no help for me at all. I could not wrestle the demons alone. I could not care for my body solely through spiritual means.

Recognizing Dashed Hopes as Seasons of Mourning

I knew I had come to a crossroads, and I knew my body did not belong to me (1 Corinthians 6:19-20). After years of resistance, I forced myself to seek medical treatment. The decision flew in the face of everything I had been striving for. I cried. I lamented. I thrashed and wailed, and then wept and sulked. I wasn’t supposed to still be broken like this. I knew the gospel, I “did all the right things,” I had beaten this thing back before and wondered if I could do it once more. Try a little harder to get it right the next cycle around, I’d think to myself.

But after talking with my husband, we knew what had to be done. I had to lay my weapons down. I had to let the Holy Spirit lead me where I didn’t want to go: the mental hospital.

I knew what I was walking into, having been there once before. With weighted, burdened, hesitant steps across the linoleum hospital floor, I shuffled through the doors. After five weeks of spiritual destitution, words of consolation were given to me by the Holy Spirit:

“When I am afraid, I will put my trust in you.” (Psalm 56:3)

I finally sought treatment for the physical components of my struggles with depression and hypomania. That day, Jesus made clear a new season was about to come: I could surrender the hope of fixing myself and instead find peace by simply belonging to him—no strings of wellness attached.

Learning to Adapt to the Seasonal Spectrum

Author Zack Eswine writes, “Many of our frustrations rise from our blindness to the change of season or to the pain or joy of them, and we struggle to adjust our expectations.” This was true of the experience I shared above. I could not perceive the new way the Lord was bringing help and healing into my life because I blindly presumed the only way to recover was through self-determination. I wanted to dance, to laugh, to sew, to experience peace—but such were not the times (Ecclesiastes 3:4-8). During those days of struggle I mourned, wept, tore, and was at war with myself, believing I was experiencing a season I should have been immune to.

The arms of a clock take their turns pointing upward and downward. The sunrise requires a sunset. The dusting of white winter snow yields to the dusting of yellow spring pollen. There are times when we’ll struggle and experience the full-blown severity of life with a broken body. And there are times where we’ll progress and celebrate the sweet sensation of our wounds finding their balm in Christ and his helps. Like the numbers on the clock, seasons are what they are—no season is “wrong” when its turn is summoned. Seasons each have their purposes, their pleasures, their pains, their pressures, and we either adapt and trust God with all our times (Psalm 31:15) or we desperately cling to the times we imagine for ourselves and slowly self-destruct when they don’t come to fruition (Proverbs 16:9).

Through the dashed hope of self-preservation, Christ taught me the true and better hope of trusting him fully with my ever-evolving times.

Whatever season we find ourselves in, the Scriptures tell us that Christ is always working to spring forth a new thing we cannot yet perceive (John 5:17, Isaiah 43:19). Yet, sometimes our inability to perceive the road ahead causes us to become hopeless or fearful. When this happens, Eswine encourages us “that the way forward in our seasons is not found in rehearsing what we do not know, but in remaining faithful to what we do.”

Clinging to Gospel Hope in Every Season

Jesus knew the seasons of his life on earth were ordained. My time has not yet come, he said (John 2:4, John 7:6, John 7:30). My time is at hand, he later proclaimed (Matthew 26:18). His sensitivity to the times is sage wisdom for us. But more than wisdom, Jesus’s experiential knowledge of our times under the sun ushers in divine hope. In Christ, we have a high priest who himself traversed the entire spectrum of mortal seasons, and promises to walk through them with us (Matthew 28:20). Eswine comforts, “We are learning that whatever time it is, Jesus is there with us.”

The worst of seasons, Jesus has overcome! And the best of seasons are no match for the times to come in Heaven (1 Corinthians 2:9)! We may mourn, but praise God we will never know the depths of mourning experienced by the forsaken Son upon the cross (Matthew 27:46). We may dance, but one day we will spin and leap and wave our arms as the thrill of redemption finds its fulfillment at the wedding feast (Revelation 19:9).

All of this hope and resurrection life is granted to us because Christ volunteered to put aside his crown for a season; he obediently drank the cup of wrath when his time had come; he victoriously conquered death and rose again when three days passed; he shares the promise of new life with those who put their trust in him for eternal salvation. Our times are bound up in his times, that we may learn how to be brought low and how to abound in every season:

Through him who strengthens us (Philippians 3:4:12-13).

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Christine is the author of Clean Home, Messy Heart, the host of The Hope + Help Project podcast, and is a guest contributor at Desiring God. She writes frequently about depression, motherhood, and counseling topics at her blog, has completed biblical counseling certificates with the Institute for Biblical Counseling & Discipleship, and is currently pursuing certification with the Association of Certified Biblical Counselors. Christine lives with her husband and three children in South Carolina.

Christine also curates weekly Christ-centered mental health resources for her subscribers. If you’re looking for gospel hope & help for facing mental health challenges, please click here to learn more and subscribe to Christine’s helpful email deliveries.

The post Mourning Dashed Hopes: Biblical Wisdom for Changing Seasons appeared first on Shauna Letellier.