grace for your winter season
The big tree outside my window isn’t dead. It’s a tree in Winter.
When I wrote that, tears instantly came. It conjures a welcome, mysterious hope.
Even when things look dead, maybe they aren’t--maybe they’re just dormant, like a tree in Winter.
The tree looks dead. If it were Spring or Summer, that would be the right conclusion. But it’s not. It’s Winter. It’s fitting for the season it’s in.
There is nothing wrong or broken with it--it’s simply Wintertime. In fact: it’s doing exactly what it should be doing. The leaves will come; but now, it’s not time yet.
The life is there. It’s simply hidden right now. It’s pausing, resting, hiding, preparing--doing what it’s supposed to do.
I feel like this tree. That’s why the tears have continued to fall. My life feels hidden. When will my spring come? How long, O Lord?
My desk looks out on this tree. As I write this now, guess what I see: little red buds dotting the bare branches.
I’m no tree expert, so I don’t really know what those little red buds mean. But I have a hunch it means the leaves are on their way.
It’s the first signs of the life pulsing within. The life that’s been there all along. Hiding, preparing, resting--not dead.