God of the Winter
I have been aching almost physically to get out and hike this week. It's been only months since I breathed the fresh air of the forest, but it feels like centuries. In my quiet moments, I've found myself daydreaming about green, about wide open spaces and quiet creeks and patches of sunlight.
Winter brings its own peace, really. The world is quiet, sounds are hushed, growth is stilled. It's a season to dig deep, settle our souls, and wait. But it's a cold peace, a peace that leans on the edge of its seat, straining for a glimpse of what might be next. It's a peace that's never fully content, always missing that spark of light. It's a restless sort of peace.
I was reading a devotional tonight that talked about the evidence of God being written all over nature. My heart beat faster as my mind was filled, as in my daydreams, with the fullness of nature. I read verse after verse.
"...Since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities--his eternal power and divine nature--have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made..." (Romans 1:20)
Every leaf, every branch, every creature--all of it breathes him. All of it shows us the fullness of who he is, what he is. All of it reminds us that he dwells here, among us.
In the spring and fall and summer, he surrounds me. I have no trouble remembering that he is alive, because his creation is alive all around me. I'm at peace, when I'm in nature, because I feel surrounded by him. I don't forget that he is with us in those seasons.
Small wonder I've been daydreaming...
But in the winter, my faith falters. My present feels cold and immovable. The future is bleak. I wait, on the edge of my seat, hoping for a glimpse of life, a sign that he is still here. I strain, hoping to be reminded of the abundance of spring and his presence.
Life mirrors the seasons closely, doesn't it?
In the winter seasons of my life I have peace, but it's an uneasy peace. It's a peace that waits restlessly, barely daring to hope that there is life under the cold surface. In the winter months I find myself doubting--doubting that he is alive, doubting that he is here, doubting that this cold season has any part of him at all. In the winter seasons, I often lose my way.
But all of creation proclaims him. All of creation. Every leaf, every branch, every season. He is no less alive and present and full in the cold hours of January than he was in the sun-kissed evenings of June. He is no less present all around me in the icy winds of winter than he was in the easy breezes of spring. No season drives away the God who made the seasons.
The uneasy stillness of winter is my Sabbath--my time to draw close to the fires and remember again why I am here. My invitation to rest. The winter season is my healing. The pure white of the snow covers all of my filth. The hardness of winter provides me a chance to start over. The winter seasons push me to the edge of myself--every year--until I exhaust my own strength and I'm forced to step out in his. Winter has taught me to trust.
His presence isn't felt in abundance, or in warmth, or in easy moments in the winter. But he is nonetheless here. He is nonetheless active. His grace is sufficient even for winter. And in the coldness and the doubt and the restless yearning, I don't have to wait for spring to find him. He is, after all, the God of the Winter just as he is the God of the Spring.
Winter brings its own peace, really. The world is quiet, sounds are hushed, growth is stilled. It's a season to dig deep, settle our souls, and wait. But it's a cold peace, a peace that leans on the edge of its seat, straining for a glimpse of what might be next. It's a peace that's never fully content, always missing that spark of light. It's a restless sort of peace.
I was reading a devotional tonight that talked about the evidence of God being written all over nature. My heart beat faster as my mind was filled, as in my daydreams, with the fullness of nature. I read verse after verse.
"...Since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities--his eternal power and divine nature--have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made..." (Romans 1:20)
Every leaf, every branch, every creature--all of it breathes him. All of it shows us the fullness of who he is, what he is. All of it reminds us that he dwells here, among us.
In the spring and fall and summer, he surrounds me. I have no trouble remembering that he is alive, because his creation is alive all around me. I'm at peace, when I'm in nature, because I feel surrounded by him. I don't forget that he is with us in those seasons.
Small wonder I've been daydreaming...
But in the winter, my faith falters. My present feels cold and immovable. The future is bleak. I wait, on the edge of my seat, hoping for a glimpse of life, a sign that he is still here. I strain, hoping to be reminded of the abundance of spring and his presence.
Life mirrors the seasons closely, doesn't it?
In the winter seasons of my life I have peace, but it's an uneasy peace. It's a peace that waits restlessly, barely daring to hope that there is life under the cold surface. In the winter months I find myself doubting--doubting that he is alive, doubting that he is here, doubting that this cold season has any part of him at all. In the winter seasons, I often lose my way.
But all of creation proclaims him. All of creation. Every leaf, every branch, every season. He is no less alive and present and full in the cold hours of January than he was in the sun-kissed evenings of June. He is no less present all around me in the icy winds of winter than he was in the easy breezes of spring. No season drives away the God who made the seasons.
The uneasy stillness of winter is my Sabbath--my time to draw close to the fires and remember again why I am here. My invitation to rest. The winter season is my healing. The pure white of the snow covers all of my filth. The hardness of winter provides me a chance to start over. The winter seasons push me to the edge of myself--every year--until I exhaust my own strength and I'm forced to step out in his. Winter has taught me to trust.
His presence isn't felt in abundance, or in warmth, or in easy moments in the winter. But he is nonetheless here. He is nonetheless active. His grace is sufficient even for winter. And in the coldness and the doubt and the restless yearning, I don't have to wait for spring to find him. He is, after all, the God of the Winter just as he is the God of the Spring.
