I am no stranger to the deadline. Just this year alone, I’ve had six book deadlines I’ve had to meet already and one still looming by the end of the year (and two other projects that need finished or as-much-finished-as-possible before 2027 rolls around). I like deadlines. They motivate me to stay on task, keep my rear in the chair, and put words on the page.

But when it comes to life? Not every situation comes with a deadline–or, to put it a different way, an ending. We don’t always know if a particular trial is just-for-a-time or if it will last forever.

And that’s something I’ve been sitting with a lot in recent months, since my new oncologist told me treatments will likely be forever for me. Forever is the exact opposite of a deadline. Forever means no end in sight. Forever is a concept that goes against our instincts when it’s not the promise of something delightful. 

This is, in fact, something people have done experiments on–the fact that we like to know when things are supposed to happen or end. Waiting without knowledge of when the wait will end creates anxiety. Give me tracking on the package. Tell me how long until the train or plane or bus arrives. Tell me when the power will be restored. Even if the estimate is wrong, having one helps keep anxiety and frustration under control.

But not everything in life works that way. Barring a cure, my son will never stop having to deal with diabetes. My mom will have to live with back pain. I’ll be dealing with cancer treatments. Chances are good that you have (or will have) something you’ll have to deal with chronically too.

So when life’s challenges don’t come with a time limit, how do we cling to hope? What do we do when the Lord chooses not to calm the storm around us?

That’s when we need to remember that He can still calm the storm within, even when the waters are raging. We can trust Him, find our rest alongside the Savior who slept through that tossing storm while His disciples were frantic, crying out for Him.

The “how” of doing that isn’t one simple answer. But as I was writing The Island Bikeshop, with a heroine who’s still coming to grips with the fact that her new normal may well include migraines several times a week and a permanent limit to some activities she used to do thanks to a traumatic brain injury, I spent some time exploring something.

That we can’t wait to thank God until the challenge is over–it might never be. So we have to learn to thank God in it. Not necessarily for it–but IN it. Because there are blessings in that trial, blessings you’d never have known without that trial.

There are the people you meet through it.

There are the new perspectives you gain because of it.

There are the ways we learn to lean on each other to get through it, and the way relationships deepen because of it.

There are the ways God meets you there, in your pain or your grief or your struggle, and you learn something new about the depths of our Lord.

There are the people who open up to you and share their needs and struggles only because they know you’ll understand, given your own.

There is the strength you gain through this training that allows you to keep going…and keep serving.

Obviously we still wish the trial would end. If medical science finds a cure for diabetes, my son will be thrilled! But we can’t plan for that. So instead, we find the blessing in what we’re given.

It’s there–I promise you that. Are you eyes open to it?

I’m sure you’ve read the parable of the workers in the vineyard–the one where the landowner goes out every three hours to bring in more workers and pays them all the same wage at the end of the day. The one in which the workers who’d been there all day thought they’d get something more than what they’d agreed to but didn’t and complained about it.

Have you ever paused to wonder which worker you are? And, for that matter, who they all represent?

This being Scripture, we can assume there are layers. But until a few weeks ago when it was the liturgical reading and hence the subject of the homily, I don’t think I’d really paused to wonder at how many layers are present. I’d always read it as something that says no matter when we come to Christ–whether it’s in childhood or on our deathbed–we all receive salvation, which is inherently equal. And that’s a perfect valid reading.

It’s also just the tip of the iceberg.

Something I’d never paid much attention to is the fact that those first workers are the ONLY workers who agree to terms before they set out. They have a formal agreement. They will do a typical day’s work (twelve hours at the time) for a typical day’s wage (one denarius). Everyone else was just told “I’ll pay you what’s fair.” They probably assumed it would be less than a denarius. But they didn’t haggle–they were just grateful for work, so they went. They trusted the landowner to provide what was right and just.

Perhaps I’m just slow, LOL, but this was the first time I realized that those first workers could also represent the Israelites–the ones who’d been given the law. They were the ones with a formal agreement with God. They were the ones told explicitly, “Do this work, earn this reward.”

The rest of us? We were told, “Come on in, pitch in, and I’ll give you what’s fair at the end of the day.” And we run on into the vineyard, grateful.

If we look at the parable not as pertaining just to individuals but to the world throughout history, then each of those workers could represent whole lands and regions as the Gospel is brought to them. Some heard it soon. Some are still waiting.

This is certainly not the only reading…but it’s an interesting one, isn’t it? Because our New Covenant through Christ does not come with set terms like the Old Covenant did. But it comes with that inherent trust–we trust Him to give us what’s fair.

More, we trust Him to provide us what we need. A denarius was the daily wage because it was what a family needed to survive one day–to eat one day. That sheds a whole new light on the parable, doesn’t it? That next layer.

If the landowner hadn’t given those latecomers that wage, they wouldn’t have been able to afford to feed their families that day. But He saw something critical here–that they were willing to work, they just hadn’t yet been called to work. And He had compassion on them and provided what they needed to care for themselves and their households.

But those first workers, the ones who complained…they wanted more. And they wanted more because they saw that He had made the latecomers their equals, which was unfair.

How often do we hear that–and think that–in life? That’s not fair! 

But is it truly unfair for God to provide for ALL who need it and to give what’s needed? Those first workers didn’t need more than the daily wage. But need doesn’t negate want, does it? We always want more. The question is…would they have wanted those others to receive less? If the first workers had been the first to get their wages, they no doubt would have been fine with them…at first. But if they stuck around to see the others get the same? I imagine they’d still have complained. Which means they’d have been wishing not just that other people got less, but that they’d be wishing they got not-enough.

Think about that for a second. I know I had to sit with it.

Do I ever do that? Do I ever wish that I would receive more than what I need, even if it means someone else doesn’t…and that it means they would suffer? That they wouldn’t be able to feed their families? Is my idea of “fair” really just “what takes care of me and heck with them”? I hope not.

Then there’s the particular complaint…”we’ve been working here since sunup and bore the heat of the day!” They were complaining that the work was hard and they did it all day.

But friends, they were working in the vineyard. The vineyard. I can’t think it’s a coincidence that Jesus chose this particular kind of field, knowing as He did that He was going to make a new covenant with His blood and use a cup of wine to be that covenant, that blood. We can safely assume that when He sends us out to work in a vineyard, it’s to do the work of bringing His salvation to the world.

Yes, that work can be physically exhausting–and emotionally too. Yes, it can be hard.

But it’s also an honor. It’s a privilege. It’s a sacred calling. So never, at the end of a day (or our life) should we complain about it. Because this is Kingdom work.

That doesn’t mean we’ll always feel great or will skip our way through the hard work. But it does mean that we’re not just doing it for the reward–for the wage. We’re not just doing it for a coin in our hand or to feed our family. We’re doing it because the work itself is good. The work itself is worthy of our attention. The work itself is worth doing.

I don’t know about you, but thinking about it like that…well, that changes everything.