Of Winter Seasons & Days of Joy

The garden is barren right now. What once was filled with promises of the harvest has withered away and been tossed into the compost, and the soil sits without seed or sprout. The chickens have been foraging in there recently, digging up bugs and kicking soil from the bed onto the ground and I’ve begun to simply let them.

“It’s good for the soil,” I tell myself as I cradle yet another cup of tea. “They’re preparing it for Spring. I’ll be thankful for the mess when it’s all in bloom again.”

It’s Mother’s Day this Sunday, and it’s a day of joy. It’s a day when I get to be thankful for my mother and all those who I see being mothers with all the beauty and hardship it brings. Mothers truly are superheroes. They hold a tiny body in their bodies as they develop and they then hold tiny hands as they learn to navigate the world, and eventually they release those hands so that the baby they once held close can thrive as an adult. It is part of the vital work of motherhood to nurture and navigate and encourage, and to give, give, give… and often it can be thankless. But Mother’s Day is a day of celebrating all that mothers are and all they do.

But… it is a day when I think about that barren garden and this winter season I find myself within. My hands hold tightly to cups of tea, but I long for them to hold an ultrasound, a glimpse of a little life blooming within me. I long for the quiet days to give way to the cries and giggles of a little one. I long to hold those tiny hands and marvel at how small a palm can possibly be.

There are others for whom this day holds the same feeling of longing. Perhaps it’s for the life that bloomed but was lost before their hands could be held, perhaps it’s for relationships broken that remain unmended, perhaps it’s for plans that did not come to fruition when dreams of marriage never eventuated.

God dwells within this winter season. He is present in the barren garden. He walks within it and whilst all we can see at times is the desolation, He sees the hope within the garden and He calls us to walk with him through it. He holds our hand as we long to hold tiny hands, and He hears our every cry and will one day wipe away our every tear. His Word has told us so, and His promises are true.

In Romans 12:15 we are told to rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn. In the past I thought that these were seasons apart — that we would never hold them together — and yet through these times I have found that my empty garden stands beside those that are brimming with fruit and flowers, bright and beautiful. And I rejoice. And oh, I mourn. They are knitted together tightly and sometimes there is no breath between the two. Among God’s people we are given the unique gift of holding grief and joy for one another, and when the garden is barren we hold hope and when the garden is thriving we celebrate the harvest. Their joy is my joy and my grief is their grief. We were not made to go through any season alone.

On a day of joy such as Mother’s Day it can feel as though joy forgets grief and grief forgets joy, yet we do not have to live like this. This Sunday as we enter through the doors of church we should bring whatever season we are in and know that there are others within it, and that for those people we bring the gift of understanding. We can hold each other’s longing close and we can hold onto hope when our well has run dry. For those in the season of Spring we can relish those sweet moments and celebrate the blooms, we can hold those tiny hands and be thankful for the God who made them and the family who nurture them — we can know that we too are part of God’s vision for that child’s life.

We can weep.

We can laugh.

We can hope.

We can pray.

Oh, we can pray — with longing and aching, with joy and thanksgiving.

Through these days of Winter, where the garden is barren and the cups of tea held closely don't come close to the desires held in the heart, it is true that God is with us and it is true that these days can feel impossible.

Yet we hold onto hope that His plans for us are good, that Spring will come, and that whatever blooms will be beautiful in its time — because He will make it so.

For now, the garden is barren and we hold grief and joy closely together for one another.

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