The sun came out this weekend. The whole city was in a better mood because of it. People did things it was definitely not warm enough to do. Like wear tank tops on their still-snow-on-the-ground runs. Drive around with the windows open. Start assuming winter is over forever and not just taking a quick break so it can roar back in unexpectedly and send us reeling back to the cold, dark pit of despair.
It was barely in the 40s, but the sun was warm, and the wind was gentle and after our several straight weeks of arctic temps where windchill pushed numbers deep into the negatives, our little Midwest hearts couldn’t help but leap for joy.
Honestly, any time we can reasonably ditch our heavy winter coats, we’re a happy people.
But the change in my attitude, the way I lifted my face instinctually toward the sun, the way my heartbeat quickened with the murmurs of spring on the warm-ish breeze . . . it hit me how poignantly it was a metaphor for this season of my life.
One year ago, I was deep in the winter woods. There was no sunlight. No warm, gentle breeze. No hope or possibility or whisper of new life. There was only chilling cold. The bone-deep kind that steals all the warmth from your body. You sit buried beneath blankets and still can’t feel anything but brrrr. There was only bare trees and barren fields. There was only gray landscapes and gray skies and gray souls too weak and weary to believe the sun would ever come back.
Or at least one gray soul—mine.
I keep writing about this healing, about this experience. I can’t help it. I am in awe of how far I’ve come. More than anything I’ve done in my life, this healing feels the most impossible, the most miraculous.
When I was in it, deep in it, so sad I thought I might die from it—not that I was suicidal, rather I was so very heartbroken I couldn’t breathe through the pain, I didn’t know how to keep living while my heart shattered and shattered and shattered—I didn’t even know how bad it was. How depressed I was.
I’m the kind of girl who just puts her head down and gets work done. I don’t need to assess. I don’t need to look up. I just need to keep working until something changes. Hopefully for the better.
So sure, my husband had started collecting household chores when I found myself too exhausted to function. And yes, fine, I stopped reaching out to friends, and making plans, and became a literal hermit in my house. And fine, I cried every day. Sobbed actually. Anything could send me into a fit of weeping and wailing. But I was also working really hard on my social media presence, and writing Substack episodes, and a whole full-length book. I was still getting the kids where they needed to go. And nursing my oldest back to health after she shattered her ankle. I was still going on dates with my husband and investing in my family. I was working hard to keep working hard.
High Functioning Depression—I wrote another blog post on it a while back. And it exactly sums up my struggle.
Then, somewhere in the midst of that storm, I realized I needed help. It wasn’t instantaneous. I certainly didn’t decide therapy was the answer the second things began to go wonky. No, it was months into the worst of my pain, and years into the downward spiral that took me there.
But it wasn’t just therapy that saved me. It was realizing how badly I needed help. It was a decision to change the cycle of bad habits and woe-is-me thinking I’d slipped into. It was finally admitting, through gritted teeth and clenched fists, that I couldn’t fix this myself, that I couldn’t just work myself into a healthier mindset and happier perspective. That I couldn’t just keep putting my head down and accomplishing tasks and hope I would magically feel better.
It was still work. Of course, it was. Changing anything in our lives takes immense effort and a fair amount of pain and awkward starts. But it was a different kind of work. It was a soul working that I couldn’t have accomplished on my own. An inside out transformation that I had to give up control of and trust in the God who designed me top to bottom. It was an unclenching of those fists and a relaxing of that jaw and giving this process over to the One who knows so much better than little ol’ me.
And like all good, hard, beautiful things—it hurt more than it helped at first. There were more tears. There was more heartache. There was a transformative therapy session in which I wept and wept and wept and did not know if the pieces of my heart would ever go back together.
And yet, the Grace of God.
Oh, friends. The good, relentless, all-encompassing, depthless grace of our Almighty God. How it saves. How it saves.
There were practical aspects to this transformation too. When I say this was a miraculous healing, it wasn’t all jazz hands and spirit fingers. I learned what boundaries were for the first time in my life and how to set them. I cut out toxic spaces that were draining me of energy and life and joy. I stepped back from a lot of commitments so I could focus on healing. I worked through a *lot of trauma and past pain with my therapist. And I experienced a significant, life-changing amount of gentle grace from the people closest to me. They gave me the space and time I needed to work through all of this without demanding I get better right this second.
I think one of the most beautiful gifts God gives us is that He lets us partner with Him in His miracles. Not that we have any power or responsibility in them. But that He holds our hands and uses us to bring about His will. We get front row seats to the good work He’s doing in and through us. We get to see it, partake in it, reap the blessings from it. He’ll require work from us too. But even that hard work is a good, good gift. We feel the dirt on our hands, the ache in our feet, the sore muscles and bone-deep exhaustion. We feel all of it, even if we don’t see all of it. And that’s how we know it’s real. That He is real.
Amen and amen.
Not everything has been fixed in my life since that icy winter season. There are still big questions and not very many answers. There are missing pieces. And holes I’m not sure how we’re going to fill in. But spring is coming. I feel it in the balmy breeze across my skin. I feel the warmth of it as I tip my face toward the now-shining sun. I smell the lovely new life breaking through the thawing ground. The landscape is getting ready for color. The trees are just about to sprout in full green. The fields are just about to burst with abundant life. The desolation of my soul has weathered this dark winter, has seen it through to the end. It’s not spring yet, but it will be soon.
I’m so very hopeful for it.
The difference between one season to the next is a complete change of scenery. It is an upending of old ways and an ushering in of the new. It is wisdom learned, experience gained, mistakes made, forgiveness given, and new hope planted. It is the death of one so that new life might emerge in all its glorious, fragile, wondrous splendor.
This weekend, I stepped outside and lifted my face so the bright sun could heat my winter-pale skin. And in this strange, bizarre, still-difficult season, my pallid soul is doing the same to the Son who died for me and paid it all. Who saved me from my sins, and my mistakes, and myself. Who reached out of heaven and gently carried me from winter to the first blossoms of spring. Who will carry me still as I face yet more changing seasons and more mistakes to learn from and more pain to heal from and more hardships to bear.
The Son is out. In His full glory. And I am no longer gasping for breath while my heart shatters and shatters and shatters. I am breathing easy, taking big, satisfying gulps of fresh air. I am stepping fully into spring and leaving my winter coat behind.
If you find yourself in your own deep winter woods, I hope you know it’s not forever. The cold will not cling for much longer. Spring is just around the corner. Sunlight is coming. Hope is blooming. New life is getting ready to burst onto the scene and steal your breath with its surprising, unimaginable beauty.
Don’t give up. Hold on for just a few more frigid nights. Trust in the One who brings dead things to life on a regular basis to restore, renew, and redeem. Who brings you back to life. Who restores you. Renews you. Redeems you.
Spring is coming. Spring is coming. Spring is coming.