Kept: Notes from a 100-Year Season

“You’re in a season…” my pastor said.

Right. My “season” will likely last until I die. My youngest was born with a disability. So thanks for that encouragement.

“It may last 100 years,” he continued, “but you ARE in a season. And in 100 years, you won’t care about these details.”

Oh.

For a moment, his words pierced through my exhaustion. A season. Even if it lasts 100 years. There was something steadying in that eternal perspective.

But after the moment passed, my mind got to work missing the point. Because until the season ends, I end up being the one who remembers, arranges, advocates, and anticipates. How many years can I actually sustain that?

Recently, I sank into my parents’ couch and let them handle childcare for an hour. As I fully relaxed, it became painfully obvious how tightly I’d been wound. My shoulders dropped two inches. My jaw unclenched. And I realized: my body has been holding a posture of readiness for so long, I’d forgotten what rest even feels like.

My mind won’t clock out. It rehearses worst-case scenarios, replays that conversation with the neurologist, calculates how many therapy appointments we can afford this month. Even when I try to pray, the words feel like one more task on an endless list.

So where exactly are exhausted people supposed to go when “have faith” feels like “try harder?”

A year before our youngest was born, my husband created a board book of Psalm 121 for our older child. We read it so many times we memorized it without trying. I thought we’d chosen it for our child. Turns out, God was preparing it for me.

Initially, we thought it would be helpful for our child to hear, “He who keeps you will not slumber,” before drifting to sleep. Now I see it’s not pleasantry.

He keeps you. Present tense.
Active verb. His job, not mine.

Verse three does not say, “He’ll help you stay vigilant.” Not “He’ll give you strength to keep watch.” He keeps you. Present tense. Active verb. His job, not mine.

The Lord does not slumber. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t catastrophize about next year’s insurance approval. He doesn’t need a break.

Which means—and this is the part I keep forgetting—I’m allowed to.

I am not my family’s keeper. I am the one who is kept.

This isn’t semantics. It’s a complete inversion of the story I’ve been telling myself. I thought faithfulness meant vigilance, that love required me to be the one standing guard. But Psalm 121 says there’s already Someone on night (and day) watch. He shades me from dangers I don’t even know to fear. He keeps my life—not as a distant supervisor reviewing my performance, but as one who refuses to look away.

So what does the practice, not the theory, actually look like? How do I live as one who is kept when the week still holds four therapy appointments and a looming social work meeting?

Psalm 107 gives me an image I’m learning to lean on: God turns desert into pools of water. Parched ground into flowing springs.

This doesn’t erase my perception of the desert. But it changes what I look for. I’m learning to watch for cracks in dry ground where His water is already pushing through. The friend who texts at the exact moment I’m unraveling. The small mercy of a child who sleeps through the night. The patience I didn’t manufacture for the misbehaving child. These aren’t coincidences. He’s been digging wells while I was busy cataloging everything that’s dead.

He’s been digging wells while I was
busy cataloging everything that’s dead.

And here’s what I’m discovering: the more I notice these wells, the more I find them. Not because I’m becoming more spiritual, but because I’m becoming more convinced that He actually is keeping watch. That His promise isn’t aspirational—it’s operational. He is digging wells in ground that still looks like desert.

A hundred years? It still sounds like a long time for disappointments and needs that won’t quit.

But maybe that’s exactly why I need a Keeper who doesn’t sleep and wells I can’t see yet. Because in 100 years—or in 100 days, or maybe 100 hours—I won’t remember today’s catastrophes. I’ll remember this:

He kept watch so I could rest.

And He’s still keeping watch now.