Joy in the Hard Seasons

You woke up with the noblest intentions. A clean slate, a hopeful sigh, a promise whispered to yourself before your feet even touched the floor: Today will be different. You’d planned it all in your head the night before – a peaceful morning, a healthy breakfast that wasn’t thrown together from the back of the pantry, a smooth school drop-off with smiles, maybe even a quick coffee shared with your spouse before the day spun into motion.

But before the sun finished stretching its light across the curtains, your perfect plan began to crumble.

The first sound out of the bedroom wasn’t birdsong or laughter, it was a wail. One child was already melting down because their socks felt “weird,” the seams cutting into their morning peace like paper cuts. The other refused to leave their cocoon of blankets, eyes clamped shut in silent rebellion. You took a breath, gearing up for gentle negotiation, but that’s when your spouse’s voice cut in: sharp, irritated, brittle enough to splinter the moment.

And suddenly, everything was noise.

Screaming. Snapping. Someone crying. Someone else slamming a drawer. Words flew that should have stayed swallowed. The air grew heavy with frustration, disappointment, and regret forming in real time.

You’d promised yourself that you would keep calm. You’d sworn to be the anchor in the sea of chaos. But that calmness slipped through your fingers like water, and before you knew it, you were adding to the storm. Your voice raised, your patience gone, and things were said that burned the moment they left your mouth.

It wasn’t even 7:00 a.m.

By the time the clock hit the hour, your spouse had stomped out in a flurry of muttered words and unspoken anger. The kids, both red-eyed and silent, dressed themselves in mismatched clothes – yesterday’s shirt with pajama pants, two socks that didn’t even agree on color. Breakfast plans gave way to Poptarts and chocolate milk in the car. The kind of meal that tastes like surrender.

The drive to school was quiet, too quiet. It felt almost like a punishment.

Halfway there, you realize that someone’s lunch box was left sitting on the counter. A bookbag forgotten by the door. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. You were too tired to face another redo of the morning’s unraveling.

When you pull up to the school, there were no cheerful goodbyes, no playful reminders, no “I love yous.” Just silence and the soft click of seatbelts unlatching and car doors shutting as they slip out without looking back.

And then it hit you all at once.

The sheer heaviness of the morning. The disappointment. The gnawing self-criticism. In your own private scorecard, you give yourself a 1 out of 10 as a parent. Maybe less. And as a spouse? You don’t even bother with the math. It feels like failure in every category that matters.

Sitting there in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the steering wheel, you find yourself watching a world of other parents wave and smile and sip their lattes, looking (at least from the outside) like they have it all together.

Somewhere between heartbreak and exhaustion, a question slices through the fog:

Maybe you weren’t made for this. Maybe your spouse would be happier with someone calmer, gentler, more normal. Someone who doesn’t lose their cool before sunrise.

You sit in that thought a moment too long. Then you turn the key, the car hums back to life, and you drive away… looking for a redo button that you just can’t seem to find.

Friend, if you're sitting in that car right now – literally or figuratively – I need you to hear something.

Take a deep breath. Close your eyes for just a moment. And remember this: This is not your ending.

While it might feel like the final verdict on who you are as a parent, as a spouse, as a person – you're actually smack dab in the middle of the story that God is writing for you. The middle is messy. The middle is where the characters struggle and fail and wonder if they're going to make it. But the middle is never the end.

God isn't looking at your morning and writing you off. He's not tallying up the score and shaking His head in disappointment. He's not surprised by your anger or your exhaustion or the words that slipped out before you could catch them.

He knew this morning was coming. And He's still not done with you.

In fact, He's right there in the car with you, in the chaos you just left behind, in the heavy silence, in the shame that's trying to convince you that you've ruined everything. He's there. And He's whispering the same thing He's been whispering since the day He first called you "parent": I started this work in you, and I'm going to finish it.

That's not just a nice sentiment. It's a promise. And it's one that the Apostle Paul clung to when he wrote to a group of friends from the darkest, hardest place imaginable – a prison cell. When everything around him screamed failure and defeat, Paul chose to remember something that changed everything.

In the first chapter of Philippians, Paul writes to his friends in Philippi: "I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the Gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." - Philippians 1:3-6

Paul wrote this from prison. PRISON. Not from a peaceful mountaintop retreat or a perfectly organized home. And he's talking about joy and confidence in God's work.

Sitting in your car after that disastrous morning, giving yourself a 1 out of 10, replaying every moment you wish you could take back… that's when Paul's words hit differently.

Because here's what strikes me: Paul doesn't say, "I pray with joy because everything is going great." He prays with joy while remembering the people that he loves… even in hard circumstances. Even from a prison cell. Even when plans have fallen apart.

What if, instead of replaying the sock meltdown and the harsh words and the forgotten lunchbox on a loop, you chose to remember differently?

Remember that three years ago, that same child who melted down over socks couldn't even communicate what was wrong, and now they can tell you the seams hurt. That's growth, even if it showed up as a tantrum.

Remember that your spouse, who snapped this morning, stayed up late with you last week talking through how to help your struggling reader. You're on the same team, even when mornings like this make it feel otherwise.

Remember that God began a good work in your child the moment He breathed life into them, and that work didn't stop because of weird socks or a chaotic Tuesday morning.

As parents, we can get so stuck in the hard moment – the meltdown, the resistance, the defiance, our own failures, the words we wish we could unsay – that we lose sight of the bigger story. We forget that God is not surprised by our 1-out-of-10 mornings. He's not wringing His hands wondering if He made a mistake entrusting these children to us.

He knew you'd have mornings like this. And He's still confident in the work He started in you.

This week, try this: When you're in a hard parenting moment – when you've lost your cool, when everything feels like it's falling apart, when you're convinced you're failing – pause and whisper, "God, You're not done yet, with them or with me." Then choose to remember one small way you've seen God at work in your child or your family, even if it's tiny. Let that truth carry you through with a little more joy, even when it's hard.

You're doing so much better than you think. That morning doesn't define you. Those mistakes don't disqualify you. And tomorrow morning? You get to try again. Because that's what the middle of the story looks like: another chance, another breath, another opportunity to trust that God's not done yet.

He who began this good work in you as a parent? He's going to complete it, friend.