winter seasons in winter

Hebrews 10:23 - Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful

I never imagined I’d share a heartbreaking life event with a friend and her response would be to quickly tell me that I’m well-versed in grief, knowing the waves it brings and how the tide can shift so suddenly in its wake. I never expected that anyone would be able to describe me in this way. This certainly isn’t where I wanted to be. But I can’t overlook the precious reality of how much deeper my friendship with Jesus is as a result.

Back to my friend’s statement - she almost spoke positively about my brushes with mourning, acknowledging an ability to see beyond what I thought or expected, and encouraging me with strength I didn’t know I had. It was like she was permitting me to lean in when I didn’t want to and take the Father’s hand, pulling me right into the rip current - His outstretched hand an invitation to stand firm, to be held secure, to grow strong again, to hear his voice and learn about a new piece of his character, of his heart.

Isn’t that all we really desire anyway? To know more of him and be changed by him as we press deeper, slowing ourselves to hear his response. To one day stand with him when all is made right, when all is made new, and for him to know exactly who we are, not because he made us but because we invited him into all of it. Knowing we surrendered all of it and asked him every step of the way for his perspective and were quick to obey when he asked something of us, even if it was not what we wanted to hear or do - but knowing it was right and true because it was his voice all along.

I think there’s something so beautiful about living a personal winter season right as Punxsutawney Phil tells us there are six more weeks of wearing sweaters. I look at winter differently in grief - I always have. I see the trees, stripped bare and exposed, left to face the wind and cold alone. All the while, I know that below the surface their roots sink deep and drink the nutrients of the rich soil, preparing for the next season even when we can’t see it.

I was listening to Upperroom’s version of the poem/song “On the Shores” and kept replaying the beginning: on the shores of my soul, I give you permission to wash my tears away and take all my disappointment and fill me with joy once again. This made me think about what surrendering our grief really is. It’s the permission we give him because he’s the kind of friend who doesn’t force anything but comes where he’s wanted. & yet, his hands are so deep in the soil of our lives, we just have to be willing to invite him in further. So it’s here where we plead for our disappointment and heartbreak to be uprooted and washed away in exchange for sinking deep in the well of life, trusting he brings new truth and new foundations stronger than before so refining and new creation can take root. And this we know for sure: spring is coming, and the stronger the roots, the more beautiful the blooms. It’s often the process that makes it all the more beautiful, like silent proof of all the work that went in to bring new life forth.

It’s also in this place of communion with the Father that we hide ourselves away, pressing into the secret place, knowing that in time he will do exactly as he says, and it may look different than we wanted or thought, but more beautiful and sacred because it’s his. It’s here that we learn the significance of yielding and the importance of our yes to him. This is deep trust with our creator.

Until the next pruning - the next winter - we await another opportunity to sink deeper and relish the process and changing seasons with gratitude. I’m so thankful there’s ease in the changing seasons and how the coming spring is gradual. The daffodils are already sprouting, but will eventually be so vibrant with life we can barely see beneath it. What a gift, to have the opportunity to know the Father in this way and drink of his incredible intentionality in the process.

So as the snow falls in February in the south, he whispers over me that only he can restore all things and that he is indeed restoring all things, and I’m reminded of the purity of a fresh, untouched snowfall - visual proof that a fresh beginning is on the horizon.

So even when it’s hard and doesn't look like we thought it would, it’s always worth the work to accept an opportunity to sink our roots deeper in His heart. We never leave unchanged when we meet with him.