The Darkness of Winter

It's Not the Villain I Once Pegged it For: How the Lord uses Winter to Grow my Faith

“If we’re going for a walk today, we better bundle up!” I told my husband after school drop off. “It’s cold.”

Perhaps if I had known just how cold it really was, we wouldn’t have gone. But I had just seen the most gorgeous full moon lighting up a winter dark sky and I felt invigorated. (I had wanted to pull over and just stare at it in wonder, but the day’s schedule had no room for such side quests.)

Our neighborhood was quiet. Not a soul to be seen. “I think we’re the only ones foolish enough to be out today,” my husband tossed over his shoulder. The shoveled walk was narrow, and I followed behind him and Chester, our dog. My cheeks were stinging with cold and my fingers felt frozen beneath my gloves, but I felt alive inside.

Enjoying the sunshine on my face. (It was -2 degrees F this day!)

This is not the norm for me. I’ve had a strong dislike for winter ever since I became “too old” for sled riding and building snow forts in the back yard. My dislike growing in strength after many days (and years) of shoveling out my car after work (wearing heels no less) in the growing darkness of evening. Dark when I drove in; dark when I drove home.

More than the cold. More than the ice. It’s the darkness I dislike most.

The darkness of western PA winters does a number on my brain. I mean, we’re already at a disadvantage getting only 160 sunny days a year. In 2024, Pittsburgh ranked 9th in “cloudiest cities in the U.S.” (“Cloudy” being defined as 7/8 or more of the sky was covered by clouds.) As a result of so many sunless and short days, many of us here suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD); and I’m no stranger to it either. SAD takes hold of my brain and fills my thinking with a grey, oppressive fog.

I remember one winter early in our marriage I couldn’t stop crying and I didn’t know the cause of it. Outside was very cold and thick with snow. Overnight, two more feet had fallen to join the winter’s previous accumulation. I felt boxed in. Trapped.

Memorable Winter of 2009

A summer baby, born on the equinox, I love the sunshine and clear skies of June. I love the bright colors of greens and yellows, reds and pinks, and varying shades of blue. I love hearing the birdsong and laughter of nearby children splashing in swimming pools. I love to greet neighbors enjoying an evening stroll in the fair weather of summer, when it stays light until 9. As Hannah Anderson says, “Forget equal time; give us the sun and only the sun and let us worship under it!”¹ The activity and bustle of life wakes me from the slumber of winter, and I shed the heavy layers of isolation and dormancy with joy!

My husband, whose faithful quest is my happiness, has suggested more than once that we don’t have to stay here. We can move to where winters are mild, and maybe even warm. The nature of his work provides great flexibility in where we live.

But each time, I’ve resisted. I was never quite sure why.

Was it a fear of change? Was it leaving the familiar—somewhere I’ve lived my entire life? Was it leaving my family? My friends? Or was it something more than the place and the people? Was it perhaps a nudging from God that He had something to teach me here? Something I could only learn in the dark, cold winter?

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A Dark Requirement

Flowers are my favorite part of spring and summer. When I spot purple crocuses beginning to emerge despite their icy surroundings, hope bursts forth in my soul! They remind me that “In Him is life, and That life is the Light of men. [His] Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome [Him].”²

Have you ever wondered why Northern gardeners suggest planting tulip bulbs in the fall? Many of our most loved spring flowers actually require a long period of darkness and cold temperatures in order to bloom after winter has passed. The lovely tulip, for example, needs 12 weeks of darkness and cold temperatures (32-45 degrees F) to put forth a showy display come April. This applies to the fragrant lilac, the cheerful daffodil, and the dramatic peony as well.

If I were to live in Florida, I would have to say goodbye to growing these favorites in my garden. And not only to these, but also to most apple varieties. There’s a reason we get most of our apples from Washington, Michigan, New York, and Pennsylvania. Most apple trees require 500-1000 chill hours at temps below 45 to be able to set flower buds and produce fruit in the next growing season.

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Defining Boundaries and Purpose

In my current Sunday school class, we are defining and understanding what it means to be called by God. Our teacher took us back to the beginning of creation and outlined what God called forth into being. In Genesis 1:3 we read: “And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.” It’s worth noting that it is not until the fourth day that God fills the sky with the sun, moon and stars. Before these were created, God Himself provided light to the “formless and empty, dark earth.” What struck me wasn’t that God’s light broke into the darkness, but that He didn’t vanquish the darkness completely. Instead, he set boundaries around it and gave it purpose. “Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark seasons and days and years.”³

“The day is yours, and yours also the night; you established the moon and the sun. It was you who set all the boundaries of the earth; you made both summer and winter.” Psalm 74:16-17

Producing. Resting. Either way, Still Loved

Once Memorial Day finally arrives, we citizens of western Pennsylvania don our spades and gloves and joyfully answer the garden’s call for beautification.⁴ When it comes to planting, I’m an equal opportunity gardener. Annuals, perennials, shrub, or bulb, I love them all, but to be a good gardener, one must know their plants and what they need to grow well. Annuals will bloom themselves to exhaustion all summer long, then die with the first kiss of frost. Perennials and bulbs, like the tulip and lilac, bloom for a season and then rest when winter forces a state of dormancy. They draw downward and inward conserving energy and building a stronger root system.

To see my hydrangeas right now, bare stemmed and cocooned in snow, one might confuse them for dead but come summer they will be covered in green leaves and stems laden with heavy balls of white blooms. Do I love them any less right now? Not at all, for I know they are only resting. They are still my hydrangeas.

As I mentioned in previous essays,⁵ two decades of being conditioned to believe that my value was derived from my productivity is challenging to unlearn. For years I never wanted anyone to catch me “resting.” I’d hear the car pull into the driveway and up I’d jump to quickly busy myself with something. I’m already an over-achiever and recovering perfectionist; a little rest would do me good. But when your brain believes less work equals less love, a little rest is a dangerous proposition.

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Remember Whose You Are

In Job 37, Elihu (one of Job’s friends) wants Job to consider the sheer greatness of God. “He says to the snow, ‘Fall on the earth,’ and to the rain shower, ‘Be a mighty downpour.’ So that all men He has made may know His work, He stops every man from his labor… At His direction they swirl around over the face of the whole earth to do whatever He commands them… Stop and consider God’s wonders.”

Who are we in the valleys of life—in the winters, the deserts? In the places where we feel stagnant and unproductive? When the Lord strips us of sunshine, and comfort, and our labor. When the abundance of the fields is halted, and the surface looks barren of growth and life. Who are we? Where do we find our purpose and value?

“The dark valley is fertile ground in which to grow deep roots of faith,” a pastor of mine shared in a sermon. Devoid of light, my hydrangeas drop their leaves, conserve energy, and wait. Often times it is only in these dark and quiet seasons, when we are required to stop or slow our labors, that we remember the wonders and greatness of God. That by His sovereign command, the sun rises and sets, the rains water the earth, and the flowers bloom.

So that all men He has made may know His work, He stops every man from his labor.

In the dark winter, stripped of sunshine, comfort, and productivity, we are not unlike the earth at creation: empty, void, without purpose. And like the earth, our Sovereign God enters in to fill us with His light and define our boundaries and purpose. What and how much we produce doesn’t determine our value; God does.

For the hydrangeas, tulips, and apples, the darkness of winter provides a respite from producing. We, too, need the darkness of winter to remind us to seek out the True Light, and to rest in and remember our dependence on His eternal provision.

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1. Anderson, Hannah. Turning of Days: Lessons from Nature, Season, and Spirit. (Moody Publishers) p. 125

2. See John 1:3-5

3. Genesis 1:14

4. Memorial Day has traditionally been the day any concerns of frost are past. But if we’re honest, we’re so excited for flowers, many of us risk it and begin planting when the ground is thawed enough to stick a spade into it!

5. Read “Faithful Friends” and “Surrendering Them to God”