“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.

Bri­anne Sut­ton is the author of Siege of the Soul, a book for par­ents nav­i­gat­ing faith, espe­cial­ly after an unex­pect­ed diag­no­sis. With a back­ground in neu­ro­science and per­son­al expe­ri­ence with spe­cial needs par­ent­ing chal­lenges, Bri­anne writes with empa­thy and insight for weary souls seek­ing hope.