The Year of Spring

It’s the middle of winter.

The mornings are cold, really cold, and it takes as much bravery to run across the tile on the bathroom floor as it does getting out of bed. My hands cup hot coffee several times a day and I feel it’s warmth run all the way down to my toes. Our coats stay laid across the top of the chair in the living room for easy access, so I can grab them as we head out the door. A different hue of grey is the sky I see most days when I glance out my window as I wash dishes. We can peek straight through the line of bare trees and overlook the brown pasture in our backyard. The days are short and darkness falls way before I’m ready to let go of the light.

But it feels like spring.

The ground may look cold and hard, but recently God has given me eyes to see roots digging deep underneath.


I sat across from a grieving mother the other day. Only a few months ago, on the same day she met her precious one, she also said good-bye. She gave me the honor of seeing the most beautiful little face in a photo and I imagined how big her little smile must be with Jesus right now. I cried with her mama. And truly, my heart felt like it was being ripped out of my chest feeling only the smallest prick of what hers must feel. But looking deep into her bloodshot eyes, I saw it there, a green shoot. Piercing up through the soil.

Another friend is waiting on a phone call for a baby through adoption, that just might not come. The birth mama is nowhere to be found. The baby is due. Now. The nursery is ready. The diaper bag is packed. Their home is ready to welcome a new baby. Their hearts are pregnant with promise, feeling the early signs of labor, contracting. Yet could miscarry at any second. But I heard it in her voice. It was the sound of spring.

My back ached the other day and I leaned over feeling a cramp. I was several days late. I really thought for a second we might have news this month that would shock everyone, mostly me. My heart sunk all the way down to the bathroom floor, like it has done more times than I can ever count. But a sweet voice called out, “Mama!” And on my way to her, I glanced in the empty room where our next baby will sleep, and the light shone straight in from the window down deep into my soul.

If we’re not careful, the barren parts of winter are the only things that we see. It’s easy to miss the thaw when life feels too cold. When all we see is darkness, we forget the darkest part of the night is right before the dawn.

I bless you friend, in Jesus’ name, to have eyes to see the spring.

He is Spring.

We see green shoots piercing up through the soil of grief because He takes stories with sad endings and rewrites them, redeeming every part. We hear spring in the sounds of miscarriage, because our Father raises dead things back to life. We feel the warmth of light in the barren places, because He is Healer and restores completely what has been broken.

What might look like winter in your life right now, what might seem the places desolate of hope, is really becoming spring. And hope is sprouting up underneath. That’s what life is like with the Father. He is always working in the places we can’t see. And when the light breaks through, He reveals what He’s been doing all along.

Can you feel it? You might still grab your winter coat to head out the door, but can you feel that warmth stirring up in your soul? Let it rise.

It’s hope.

And this is the year of spring.