In fall, I seldom think about the naked branches beneath the turning leaves. But, eventually and almost without my noticing, all the leaves will be gone (some still cling), decomposing into the soil.

And there they are—the denuded branches, stiff and clacking in the cold. This process of dying finds all of us.

So, winter comes and not without our complaints (except for those of us who love the snow and fires). This week I’ve been looking past the leaves and into their winter, into my winter. What is my winter?

Does winter equal personal pain? Breaking relationships; fear of the unknown; stresses of parenting; rage birthed from the undisciplined attitude? I think winter can symbolize pain.

But winter’s death is much more than the bleak times of life.

Winter moves in rhythm with the earth. The earth moves to the rhythm of God. Our hemisphere tilts away from the sun, the air clears, a more complete light blasts through our atmosphere, the sunsets blaze and the sunrises vault though the sun itself bends solstice low. In winter nature sleeps, driven into itself by the cold. Roots reach while snow and ice enchant the grey ridgelines.

The rhythm of the human winter mysteriously heals and deepens us; it strips us of our veneers so that we can stand and clack before God—the true us. We dive into the dark, hard soil of life; in cold corners we cower. We walk out into elements unkind. But walking does not end winter; no amount of hope can. Winter must pass; for it has its time.

Brothers and sisters, pull tight the pea coat, blanket or cowl and walk into the cold. Though God allows grief he does not afflict from his heart. Remember, though, the progression—the cross comes before resurrection. And so winter must pass. Remember, too, that His compassions are new each day (Lamentations 3:21-33). And this alone strengthens our stride.

One foot, in front, of the other. Step, again. Now, once more. Walk, clack, repeat.


Winter preserves and strengthens a tree. Rather than expending its strength on the exterior surface, its sap is forced deeper and deeper into its interior depth. In winter a tougher more resilient life is firmly established. Winter is necessary for the tree to survive and flourish.

So often we hide our true condition with the surface virtues of pious activity, but, once the leaves of our frantic pace drop away, the transforming power of a wintry spirituality of a wintry spirituality can have effect.

—Richard Foster, Prayer: Finding The Hearts True Home


— We Clack Before God http://bit.ly/YePZRw

Timothy Willard is the author of three books, including Longing For More: Daily Reflections on Finding God in the Rhythms of Life. He has collaborated on over 20 books and has written, consulted and served as spiritual director for organizations such as Chick-fil-A, Catalyst, Q Ideas and Praxis Labs. He lived in Oxford, England for two years studying beauty in the works of C.S. Lewis. He earned his PhD in Theology under the supervision of world-renowned theologian Alister McGrath. When he’s not riding the trails in the Appalachian mountains you can find him by the fire with his three daughters and his wife making up stories about Tom the back yard badger. He lives somewhere in the south Charlotte woods.