Waiting Through Winter

Winter came, and Claire remained bare.

Weeks turned into months. The Florida winter is mild compared to other places, but it's still a season of dormancy, of slowing, of waiting. And Claire, transplanted and shocked, shed her leaves and went quiet. No growth. No change. Just sticks and branches and the slow passage of time.

We watered. We waited. We tried not to obsess, but we obsessed anyway. Was she coming back? Had we killed her by moving her? Every day we looked at those bare branches and wondered.

This is the hardest season to live in—not the crisis, not the decision, not even the initial loss. But the waiting after. The season where nothing seems to be happening, where you can't see progress, where faith becomes a choice you make every single day because there's nothing else to hold onto.

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance…" (Ecclesiastes 3:1–8) Solomon understood something we forget: not every season is a season of growth. Some seasons are for waiting. Some seasons are for dormancy. Some seasons are for sitting still and letting things happen beneath the surface where we can't see them.

We live in a culture that worships productivity and progress. We can't stand the waiting season.

But the waiting season is where transformation happens.

"Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him; do not fret when people succeed in their ways, when they carry out their wicked schemes." (Psalm 37:7) The instruction isn't to be busy. It's to be still. To wait. To trust that God is working even when you can't see it.

"For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay." (Habakkuk 2:3) The promise is coming. But it has its own timeline. It will not be rushed.

This is what Claire was doing through that long winter. Beneath the bare branches, roots were establishing themselves in new soil. The trauma of transplanting was healing. The shock was wearing off. Life was preparing to return, but it needed the stillness, the dormancy, the season of nothing visible happening.

And we had to wait.

"The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord." (Lamentations 3:25–26) Not impatiently. Not anxiously. Quietly. There's a peace that can come in the waiting if we stop fighting it, if we stop demanding that spring arrive before its time.

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." (Isaiah 41:10) God doesn't say He'll hurry the season. He promises presence. He promises strength for the waiting.

Maybe you're in the winter season right now. Maybe you've been waiting so long that you're starting to wonder if anything is happening at all.

This is the invitation: Stop fighting the season. Stop demanding that growth happen on your timeline.

Be still. Wait quietly. Trust that transformation is happening even when you can't see it. Spring is coming. Not when you demand it. But when it's meant to come.

And when it does, you'll understand why the waiting was necessary.