It is a season of waiting. The whole world, robed in cold, waits for spring, that new child of promise.
But for now, we wait. The young especially cannot wait, and I, no longer young, am learning that time has gifts of its own.
Under the frigid ground, everything needed for growth lies sleeping, gathering strength for what is to come.
We are asked to believe in the invisible, the unseen, in faith that, as every year reliably casts off one season for the next, this year will be the same.
Sometimes, winter feels like enduring, sometimes like anticipating Christmas. But no one has figured out to speed up the process. We all have to repeat the cycle every 365 days.
Like me, some escape a brutal winter, settling for a mild one, but the trade off is a less spectacular spring, and a nagging guilt for our brothers and sisters bravely going about their business in sub-zero temperatures. We suddenly have no cause for complaint.
But it’s the things that happen to us while we wait that are the most transformative. When I feel I cannot wait another day, another moment, I must dig deep into my tool box and find a way, when I thought I couldn’t.
For things are growing inside me too, things I cannot see, until I’ve waited. All things serve their purpose. But then, nature recycles even death to her future advantage.
Who could have imagined that the grand and glorious transformation of earth each year is also designed for our personal growth?