For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
For everything there is a season isn't comfort in the usual sense — it's closer to a plain acknowledgment that life comes in shapes you don't get to choose. A time to plant, a time to pluck up. A time to weep, a time to laugh. The list that follows this line pairs opposites deliberately, as if to say: both halves of your life, the good seasons and the hard ones, are equally real, equally expected.
That's different from the pressure to be constantly upbeat, or the shame that can come from being in a hard season longer than feels acceptable. This verse doesn't rank the seasons. It just says they exist, on a kind of rotation none of us control, and that a season isn't a permanent verdict on your life.
If you're in a season that feels like it's dragging on with no end in sight, this poem doesn't promise you it'll be short. It just insists it isn't the only season there is.
If your current season feels endless, this poem's quiet insistence that seasons turn might be worth holding onto.
A short video on this is coming soon — for now, read on.