We live as if life were never enough.
We rush to produce, to prove ourselves, to keep up. But the Gospel teaches us that knowing how to stop is an act of trust that we must learn to perform.
Holy Saturday invites us to discover that life does not always depend on what we do, but also on knowing how to take leave of what we have been able to do.
In the tomb, Jesus, the living Word of the Father is silent. But it is precisely in that silence that the new life begins to ferment.
Like a seed in the ground, like the darkness before dawn. God is not afraid of the passing time, because he is also the God of waiting.
Thus, even our “useless” time, that of pauses, emptiness, barren moments, can become the womb of resurrection.
Every silence that is welcomed can be the premise of a new Word. Every suspended time can become a time of grace, if we offer it to God.
Those words, sent to me by a friend, felt like a punch in the stomach.
In the best way. In the way that only a message from the Holy Spirit, who sees past all our best efforts to obscure our true selves from the world, can hit home. With those words, in a season of scrambling to do too much and ignoring all signs and signals to rest, I was laid bare.
My reaction to this invitation to lay down my checklist was equal parts attraction and resistance. A deep part of me is drawn to surrender, to embrace slower pace of a life measured not in boxes checked but in moments lived, fully present to reality.
Then, there’s the me that meets deadlines. That gets things done. The part that can’t see the difference between dropping a ball and setting it down with intention—the part that fears setting one down means dropping all of them.
Yet, if there’s anything I have learned in the process of writing this book on growing things, reflecting on the wisdom of the seasons, and unveiling the costs of usurping natural processes, it is the divine purpose hidden in all things. Even—or perhaps most especially—rest.
Maybe that is why this year, instead of palpable dread, I feel quite cherry as we approach the drab grayness of winter. I am beginning to recognize there is beauty beyond color, and that light is all the more precious amidst the darkness.
After reading
’s kind words about how the “Winter” section of the book touched her, and this jaw-dropping reflection from Pope Leo, I felt drawn to share the following excerpt from my upcoming book Grow Where You’re Planted: Reclaiming Eden in Your Own Backyard (which, though currently still coverless, is now officially available for preorder).Though it began as a scrappy paperback you could take into the garden in your back back pocket, my publisher tells me it has grown into a hard cover with a full color interior. I can hardly wait to see what they’ve done with the layout, and have been delighted with what I’ve seen so far during the cover design process (I promise to share an update as soon as it’s “official”!).
A little sneak peak—the full reflection on the spiritual significance of winter, bare branches, and chill hours—is available for the paid subscribers below. I hope you enjoy!
One fun tidbit: because I love hearing the behind-the-scenes details from my favorite authors, I‘ll first share briefly that, although the exact details didn’t make it into the final cut, the characters from the books Brideshead Revisited and Silence were pivotal influences in praying through this section. See if you can guess how!
Seeds for Contemplation in Winter
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.
—Ecclesiastes 3:1
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