**A Time for Every Purpose Under Heaven**

The sun rose over the city of Jerusalem, casting golden light upon the ancient stones of Solomon’s temple. The streets below stirred with life—merchants setting up their stalls, children laughing as they ran through the narrow alleys, and priests ascending the temple steps with solemn reverence. Among the crowds walked an old man, his face lined with years of wisdom and sorrow. His name was Koheleth, the Preacher, and he had seen much in his days.

As he walked, his mind wandered back through the seasons of his life, each one marked by the hand of the Almighty. He remembered the days of his youth, when his limbs were strong and the world seemed full of endless possibilities. There had been a time to plant—when he had sown seeds in the fields of his father’s land, trusting that the rains would come and the earth would yield its increase. And indeed, the harvest had come in its season, filling the storehouses with grain.

But life was not only planting. He remembered the year the locusts came, devouring every green shoot, leaving the fields barren. That had been a time to pluck up what was planted—a season of loss, when the labor of his hands had been undone in a matter of days. His father had gathered the family then, and with heavy hearts, they had mourned. Yet even in that grief, his father had whispered the ancient words: *”The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”*

Koheleth passed by the marketplace, where a young couple stood before a jeweler, exchanging rings and vows. Their faces glowed with joy, and the old man smiled faintly. There was a time to love, a time to embrace—he had known such days. His own bride, long since gone to her rest, had once stood beside him beneath the wedding canopy, her laughter like music in his ears. But time had turned, as it always did, and there had come a day when he stood by her bedside, holding her frail hand as her breath grew shallow. Then had been a time to mourn, a time to weep.

Near the city gates, a group of laborers tore down an old wall, its stones cracked and crumbling. Nearby, others worked to lay new foundations. Koheleth paused to watch. There was a time to break down, and a time to build up. He had seen kingdoms rise and fall—Solomon’s glorious reign, the splendor of his court, the wisdom that had drawn queens from distant lands. But even that golden age had faded, giving way to division and strife. Nothing under the sun remained unchanged.

A commotion drew his attention—two men arguing fiercely, their voices rising in anger. One clenched his fists, and for a moment, it seemed blows would be struck. But then a wise elder stepped between them, speaking softly, and the tension eased. There was a time to kill, a time for war—Koheleth had seen the horrors of battle, the blood spilled in the valleys of Megiddo. But there was also a time to heal, a time to make peace. If only men would discern the seasons.

As the day wore on, the old man climbed the hill outside the city and sat beneath an olive tree, its gnarled branches offering shade. He took up a scroll and began to write, his quill moving steadily across the parchment:

*”To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven…”*

The wind rustled the leaves above him, and in that moment, he understood. God had set eternity in the hearts of men, yet they could not fathom the full measure of His works. The seasons turned by His command—joy and sorrow, life and death, scattering and gathering. None could add to it or take away.

And so, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold, Koheleth bowed his head. There was a time to speak, and a time to keep silent. For now, he would rest in the knowledge that God made all things beautiful in their time. And in the end, that was enough.