Weathering the Weary Days of Winter
Calloused, stinging hands. Itchy skin. Static frizzing my hair. Being electrified by my laundry. Another hole in my husband’s wool socks. Soggy mittens and boots strewn across the porch as jackets drip above.
Winter—oh, what a wonderful time of year, I groan through chattering teeth.
Some love winter and the magic of ice falling through the air—if you’re one of those people, this piece is not meant for you, so go grab some cocoa and prance through a snowbank. The rest of you, try to get cozy and ignore the fact that your hair is trying to attach itself to the ceiling and that your knuckles are bleeding as you scroll.
For some of us, winter is a wearying time of year. It’s not just the cold wind rattling us to the bone, but also the dark mornings and evenings, the fears of driving in snowstorms or slipping in parking lots, the thoughts of the heating bills, and the snow days that steal away appointments, school, and daycare. Winter can be a reminder of all we are without, whether it’s a first winter without a loved one or a winter still without someone like a child or a spouse. As the snow packs around our houses, we feel closed in—both physically and emotionally.
Winter can feel like many dark nights of the soul.
“Let this cold weather be an Ebenezer for you of what Christ raised you from and rehearse those promises of salvation to yourself, even as you grieve or weep or pull the curtains shut again.”
An End to Winter…
Winter resembles the state of our lives before Christ, doesn’t it? The cold, calloused heart. The itching for something more, but unsure what, and nothing seems to relieve it. Darkness of life seems to carry another layer to it—because life without the hope of Christ seems utterly bleak and meaningless. You scrape a layer of black, shards of ice from yourself to only wake up the next day to yet another slick layer.
Yet Christ, like the bright light and warmth of the spring sun, thawed us from the cold, brought us from death, and raised us like flowers, forever reaching our faces up to him. I’m reminded of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis, in which the four Pevensies siblings discover Narnia and find it overcome in a cursed winter that has neither end nor Christmas. Yet when Aslan returns to help them battle the White Witch, he brings an end to the seeming eternal winter Narnia had endured—just as was promised:
Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,
When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.
The Promise of Christ
Did you know Christ, who Lewis portrayed through Aslan, can do the same for you through the weariness of winter too? Each day as we wake up and swing our feet onto the cold floor, we can turn to him for renewal of heart and hope. Restore to me the joy of salvation, David cried out (Ps. 51:12).
Friend, let this cold weather be an Ebenezer for you of what Christ raised you from and rehearse those promises of salvation to yourself, even as you grieve or weep or pull the curtains shut again.
As you zip up snow gear on yourself or little ones, remember how Christ has dressed you in his righteousness (Is. 61:10; Rev. 19:6–8) and covered you in his armor (Eph. 6:10–20). When you see the heating bill, think on the winter birds for whom he provides even when every blossom is gone and the earthworms sleep below frozen ground (Matt. 6:26–34). As you apply product after product to your peeling and cracked hands, dwell on Christ’s healing power and the new, unbreakable bodies he will give us in heaven (1 Cor. 15:35–49; 2 Cor. 5:1–5). While your boots tiptoe over sparkling ice in your driveway, remember the narrow path Christ has promised to carry you along (Matt. 7:13–14).
“Winter can be a time of grieving and rehearsing a liturgy of God’s promises and goodness toward us. ”
Spring Will Come Again
Winter can be a time of grieving and rehearsing a liturgy of God’s promises and goodness toward us. These kinds of stones of remembrance aren’t meant to numb us to the pain (like our fingers on the scraper while we shred ice from our windshields). Rather, they accompany us as markers while we weep and struggle.
They tell us to keep going… because spring will come again.
Lara d’Entremont is a wife, mother of three little wildlings, and author. Her first book A Mother Held chronicles her earliest days of motherhood as she battled an anxiety disorder. You can learn more about her work on her website or read her writing on Substack.
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