Our 4 little boys, what we called “the future men” – have become men, growing up right here, story after story, year after year, and I literally could not be more excited to hear our oldest son, Caleb and his wife Melba, share a bit more of their story, catch their vision of how we can pause for rest this Easter, to find solace in Christ and rejoice for seasons to come. This Monday it is with unabashed joy that I welcome our son and daughter-in-law, Caleb and Melba, to the farm’s big kitchen table to share!

Guest blog post by Caleb & Melba Voskamp of The Keeping Company 

As bitter wind whips across the fields and around the barn, blowing icy snow across the porch of the farmhouse, it’s hard to believe it’s the beginning of April, and spring is–theoretically–on the way.

The view out the window is cold—grey sky meets brown ground while bare branches dance in the wind.

Back at the tiny house, the river rushes by, inky, icy, and frigid.

Spring has flirted past once or twice—a warm day here, a mild rainy night there. The robins have even appeared, and then, we’re sure, been quite confused as the snow returns yet again.

It’s hard to keep looking forward to warmth and flowers and sun and summer when everything still feels so cold and hard and wrapped up tight.

But as the Farmer often says, “Seasons come, but seasons always come to pass.”

“Seasons come but seasons always come to pass.”

And that’s the thing of it. Seasons are just that—seasons.

Seasons always end. 

And in the cold, if you look closely enough, you can just see the hints of winter coming to a close.

The wind is cold and bitter, but April wind smells different than January wind. Snow blows on the porch, but this snow will melt faster than winter snow.

The grey of the sky is tinged with a barest essence of robin’s egg, and the brown of the ground is warm and soft, ready to grow a myriad of tiny green things in the coming months. The branches are bare, but if you look closely, you can see the buds pushing their way out of their tightly wrapped, wintry rest.

The rare patches of sunlight race across the muddy ground, and as they slant across the boards of the wooden floor, they are somehow warmer than they were last week, or the week before that.

You can tell, if you pause to feel it, that spring is on its way.

Seasons always end.

When joyful seasons end, the transition to other seasons is bittersweet — but sometimes the hope of that transition is the only thing that keeps us going for another day.

Hard seasons too often feel never-ending, stretching out before us as far as we can see. Pain, suffering, grief, sadness…all can seem impervious to the metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel.

“Just as winter is a season of darkness that grows into the glories of spring, Lent is a season of solemnity that erupts in the Glory of Christ—victorious!”

But seasons always come to pass, and the comfort of an ending or changing season is as simple as knowing that the changing of seasons is part of the very fabric of the world, woven when God created all things for His glory.

For God said, “Let there be lights in the expanse of the heavens to separate the day from the night. And let them be for signs and for seasons, and for days and years, and let them be lights in the expanse of the heavens to give light upon the earth.” And it was so. (Genesis 1:14-15) 

As winter thaws slowly to spring, we observe another season, a season when we prepare our hearts and minds for the glorious celebration of Christ’s resurrection and victory over sin and death. The 40-day observation of Lent offers a season to contemplate and acknowledge our brokenness while reflecting on the overwhelming grace of Christ’s love and redemption.

Just as winter is a season of darkness that grows into the glories of spring, Lent is a season of solemnity that erupts in the Glory of Christ—victorious!

As we look forward with joy and anticipation to the coming of Easter, we reflect on the steep cost that was paid for our identity to rest in our Abba, God the Father. 

I used to wonder why the Sundays of Lent don’t count in the 40-day countdown to Easter.

But they’re considered separate from the rest of the season.

Each Sunday is considered a rest from the fast, a small break from the contemplation of the darkness that so often overwhelms us.

When God created the universe, He saw that it all was good, and on the seventh day, He rested.

He set apart the seventh day of the week as a day of rest and reset, a day to pause, reflect, and refresh.

“The rhythms of life only bear fruit if we build in the rest and the celebration along with the work and the study. At the end of a day, at the end of a week, at the end of a season, we have to make time to refocus, to rest, to celebrate…to find Christ.“

Just as spring is the culmination of winter, just as Easter is the culmination of Lent, Sunday is the culmination of a week of work, providing a chance to pause, to rest, to take comfort in His goodness.

In darkness, in grief, in despair, or even just in the midst of seasons that never seem to end, we need to make space for pause.

We are given the opportunity to take a moment away from a hard season—to rest in God, to take a breath and re-center.

At the end of each day, we pause for prayer, and rest.
At the end of each week, we pause for prayer, and rest.
Each Sunday is a tiny celebration of Easter, a mini end of the season of a week, a chance for us to lay aside stress and anxiety and refocus on Christ and His sustaining, unfailing love.

The rhythms of life only bear fruit if we build in the rest and the celebration along with the work and the study; at the end of a day, at the end of a week, at the end of a season, we have to make time to refocus, to rest, to celebrate…to find Christ. 

In these moments, there is a comforting predictability, a course well worn by time and cadence, in the way that seasons overlap; our seasons of life come and go, while the seasons of the universe march on, and the seasons of faith anchor us in the only thing—the only One—that can be our comfort and our hope.

And as the season of a day fades to night and as the winter wind warms to a spring breeze, we sing praise and rest in God’s unfailing promise of new seasons to come. 

And so, as the light flickers low, we quietly anticipate the suffering, death, and resurrection of our King, the King who wore a crown ​​of thorns.

Jesus, Our Savior, may we live ever mindful of You,

who came and lived for us,

from a cradle to the cross.

“Sing praises to the Lord, O you His saints,

and give thanks to His holy name...

Weeping may tarry for the night,

but joy comes with the morning.”

(Psalm 30:4-6)