At school, there’s a pathway lined with trees and benches. The semester started in Winter when the trees were rattling branches, bare and dreary. Today, seemingly out of nowhere, they’re in full bloom. Their bright green leaves provide shade and shelter for both students and birds. They dance with the wind and breathe life to the campus. I pass by these trees every week, but today, seeing the leaves took me by surprise. “Whoa,” I thought, “there are leaves!”
But of course there are leaves. Though the trees looked dead all Winter long, they weren’t. We learned it in elementary school. Trees shed leaves to conserve energy and survive the Winter months. They basically hunker down for the cold. They do what they can to get through the tough times, and then they bloom again.
Kind of like us.
We go through seasons of coldness, barrenness, and dread. It can be with your work or career. Maybe nothing you do seem to be good enough to earn you that raise or promotion. Maybe something sent you back to school, like me and you’re having to learn how to learn, hoping that this step is the right one. Maybe this season is with your family because of a loss, a change, or falling into the habit of passing by each other like ships in the night. Maybe it’s with church or the ministry because there’s a lot of broken people you’re trying to serve while being broken yourself.
Going through winter seasons doesn’t mean we’re dead, defeated, or have failed. It simply means we’re going through winter seasons. It is what it is. Nothing more. God didn’t abandon us. God isn’t punishing us. There’s nothing to be fixed. There’s no hidden sin to repent of. Prayers help and support from family and friends help, but it really is what it is.
It’s a fact of life. I know hearing that while in the midst of a winter season sucks. It’s not helpful. You probably rolled your eyes and scoffed. If you haven’t left this blog already, I thank you and I want you to know that you’re not alone. I am here for you.
People throw that last sentence around as a nice gesture or sentiment, but I don’t because I’m an introvert. Being there for other people means opening my life and schedule up for them. I am intensely protective of my time and energy because I’ve wasted it, other people have wasted it, and nothing good came out from wasting it. So to say that I’m here for you means I do care.
Because I’ve been there. I’ve gone through winter seasons feeling alone, feeling like I screwed up my life, and not seeing a light in the dark tunnel. Nobody took my hand, offered a shoulder, or sat with me with a cup of coffee and just listened, or just sat, or made me open up to them since I’m the type of person who wouldn’t bother you with my problems. And when that keeps happening, it’s easy to let these temporary winter seasons send us into a very long blizzard. I don’t want that for anyone.
These seasons of coldness, barrenness, and dread are temporary. Just like trees, you will bloom again. Look at these tough times as the time to huddle, to wait, and to silently prepare. Your time to bloom is coming. There will be harvest, there will be renewal, there will be Spring.
But while you’re in the midst of it, I’m here to listen. I can offer you a virtual cup of coffee. You can write a novel of woes and I will read it. So long as you know that you are not alone. That someone cares. That someone will listen and not give you advice unless you ask for it.
Because May is approaching, and May is both Asthma and Allergy Awareness Month and Mental Health Month. It reminded me that I try to write about having and living out faith in every season, and that includes the tough times. I don’t dive too deep into what I went through because I don’t like lingering in the past. Because it means confronting the uncomfortable and as an INFP, I don’t like confrontations. Because many people think that talking about it means I’m still suffering and they try to fix me when all I want is to share my story in hopes that it can help someone else.
So. Deep breath. In May, I will talk about it and I hope you will join the conversation. But even if it’s not May, I want you to know that I’m here listening. Sitting. Sipping a cup of coffee. You are not alone.
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