Good morning…
Yesterday, at the exact perfect moment, we discussed the final two chapters of Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. Today, we wake up to the first official day of spring. Just like that, we melt from one season into the next. Katherine has this to say on the last page of her quietly quirky book, in the last chapter entitled Thaw.
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…we must learn to emerge slowly from our wintering. We must test the air and be ready to shrink back into safety when blasted by unseasonal winds; we must gradually unfurl our new leaves. There will still be the debris of a long, disordered season. These are the moments when we have to find the most grace: when we come to atone for the worst ravages of our conduct in darker times, when we have to tell truths that we’d rather ignore. Sometimes we have to name our personal winters, and the words will feel barbed in our throats: grief, rejection, depression, illness. Shame, failure, despair.
It often feels easier to stay in winter, burrowed down into our hibernation nests, away from the glare of the sun. We are brave, and the new world awaits us, gleaming and green, alive with the beat of wings. And besides, we have a sort of gospel to tell now, and a duty to share it. We, who have wintered, have learned some things. We sing it out like birds. We let our voices fill the air.
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What name might you give this personal winter season? What sort of gospel is it?
What a wonderful God we have—he is the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the source of every mercy, and the one who so wonderfully comforts and strengthens us in our hardships and trials. And why does he do this? So that when others are troubled, needing our sympathy and encouragement, we can pass on to them this same help and comfort God has given us (2 Corinthians 1:3-4, TLB).
Who might need the encouragement of your vulnerable voice, as you share some things you have learned from wintering with God?
…Sue…
