Wintering Well

We don’t get much of a Fall season here in Texas–at least not in the part of Texas where we live. It lasts a total of, what feels like 10 minutes, and then moves into this dreary, somewhat-cold-but-not-really season that we call, Winter. The leaves are gone and the days stretch long with dark hours. I used to love Winter, but I think it’s been since Matt died that I struggle with the idea of wintering. There’s a stillness to this season that feels both tender and uneasy, like an invitation I’m not quite sure how to accept.  

I know that Winter is a natural pause—a time to nestle in, to let go, and to prepare for what’s next. But do you ever hear the siren call of the world, demanding more productivity? Sometimes, I hear this, too. Wintering well feels almost countercultural–like I’m doing something against the grain. It’s a feeling I’m familiar with though, so I guess it shouldn’t really come as a surprise.

How do we slow down when everything tells us to speed up? How do we embrace what I feel might almost be like a sacred interlude, without feeling guilty about the slowing down–or worse yet, how do we keep from feeling lazy or ‘unproductive?’  

All around me, Creation testifies to this mysterious gift of wintering. Trees, stripped of their leaves, seem to be sleeping, resting up their energy deep in their roots. Animals burrow, nest, and hibernate. I watch squirrels scurry down our trees to hunt for the perfect space to bury a treasure of an acorn. I look at my sweet garden–even the soil seems to want rest, readying itself for the work of spring.  

I’m slowly learning that this rhythm of rest isn’t a sign of laziness—it’s more like the deep breath you need before you start over. Without it, the next season of fruitfulness would be shaky. Maybe it would even be unstable.

I think we, too, are invited to follow this rhythm, to honor the quiet and the stillness as part of the Creator’s design for our lives. Almost like a seasonal Sabbath, you could say. A reminder that you are no longer a slave, and certainly not beholden to the world. 

I think inherent in wintering well is a sense of trust: trust that the work we’ve done in the previous seasons is enough for now, trust that the Creator is holding all things together even when we aren’t striving (not that the striving was ever needed). In resting, we acknowledge that we aren’t the ones who keep the world spinning after all.  

But trust isn’t always easy, is it? It requires laying down our need to control and embracing what we can’t manage. It means stepping back, letting go, and allowing ourselves to receive the rest that the Lord so graciously offers.  

Wintering well perhaps means doing what nourishes your heart and soul in this season. Maybe wintering well is falling in love with everything you’ve done, and believing that for now, it’s enough. Maybe it’s a nestled celebration of where you are right now, not where you could be. Maybe it’s an invitation to uncover a heartfelt wellspring of the little things–the sunlight streaming into the kitchen windows at the same time every morning, because against all odds, the sun rose again. Maybe it’s the sound of your son’s laughter, the Lego creation he’s spilled all over the table–evidence not only that he’s was there, but that he was happy.

Perhaps wintering well is really cultivating the habit of attention to the liturgy of those little things that we so often overlook, ignore, and don’t have time to really see. What if wintering well is simply the idea of going gently, and savoring the pockets of joy turned over to us, knowing that He delights in our wellbeing?

And the little things are everywhere, aren’t they? 

What song did you listen to on repeat this week? 

When was the last time you belly laughed? 

How often have you chosen the silk blouse from the back of the closet, just because it was beautiful…because it made you feel beautiful? 

When was the last time you served up breakfast on your beautiful china? 

When was the last time you delighted?
Maybe wintering well is being reminded of the beauty of being alive.

Because winter doesn’t last forever, I know that even in the quiet unseen, the work is happening, the earth is quietly gathering strength for what’s to come. I know He who is faithful, is carrying on the work that will be completed at the day of Jesus Christ, for me and for you. Maybe for this season, all that is required of us both, is that we rest, 

that we taste and see the lines of our boundary have fallen in pleasant places.