Winter has fully settled into my garden. The stalks are brown, and the ones that aren’t crisp are slowly turning into leaf mold on the ground. Each time I pass up my front steps I can feel the crinkled marigolds looking at me, reminding me that despite its drab appearance, the garden is far from dead. And there are still things to tend to. Each call is a small ache; I find my mind wandering back to it regularly. Not for the first time, it has been teaching me life lessons as I ponder.
As I consider the seeds nesting in the soil, I marvel at the future that awaits them: the slow transformation to stem, leaf, bud, bloom, fruit. How does the old effortlessly make way for the new, and how does it know what to become? I sometimes wish I could embody their confidence in my own transformation, and so I endeavor to learn from them. What does it look like for me to accept the breaking open that makes room for roots? The stretching that brings me one inch closer to the heavens? The branching that makes room for others to shelter? What does it mean for me to let God into that process? To array me as the lilies, without toil?
I wonder if part of that answer lies in winter itself. Winter is an earthly embodiment of healing: an invitation to rest in response to and in preparation for the growth I experience. It is work happening behind the scenes, where, if I’m willing to listen, I can catch divine whispers hinting at what is to come. Lately, those whispers are telling me to move closer. Move closer to each other, move closer to the warmth, move closer to the harmony I see all around me in nature.
There are so many signs that people are hurting, individually and collectively. My garden tells me that the answer lies in supporting each other, in seeing our interconnectedness. Each person who drinks deeply, who fills themselves and heals themselves and allows themselves to be whole, is a blessing to me. Each time I heal, each time I drink, it is a blessing to them. Somehow it is the combined work of both moments and seasons, days and years, a rhythmic dance of identity and time that helps us appreciate who we are right now, and simultaneously prepares us to transform.
Our own lives come in seasons. You may be in summer, spring, or like my garden, the first frosts of winter. I can’t convince you to love the winter, nor would I wish to. Not all winters are created equally, and sometimes the best we can do is endure. But let me hold out hope for you, at the very least, that spring is on the horizon. Let hope be the seed that slumbers under the snow until the light penetrates once more.
Questions for when Christmas feels complicated
Christmas isn't always joyful; it can be a complicated time of year, especially for those whose faith is evolving.
- What is the story I'm telling myself about the holidays? How is this story affecting me?
- What am I making this mean about my future (rather than just this day or moment)?
- How can I support myself and meet my needs right now?
If you're frustrated with church and want to learn how to make it work for you, schedule a free 30 minute consult call. Let's talk.
mental awareness • emotional intelligence • value affirmation • SPIRITUAL NOURISHMENT
When we bring the light of our presence to something, there is little we cannot understand. And as we begin to understand, our fear, like the darkness, begins to fade.
Following the Moon, James Norbury
 |
Want access to my course for over 90% off? Register to be a beta user. You get all of my materials—videos, guides, and weekly one-on-one calls—in exchange for feedback, which will help improve the program for future clients. If you've been curious about whether coaching could help your church experience, but don't want to pay full price, now's the time to give it a try. You'll be glad you did.
Responses