I take a deep breath and lift the 110-year-old window. Its wavy glass, shaped from decades of letting the light in, is covered in smudges from sticky little hands and wet dog noses. I run my finger along the windowsill, noticing a new patch of peeling paint, and sigh, letting go of my breath and my expectations for a spotless home.

The midday sun peeks through after a long winter, warming my face with the promise of spring. A burst of fresh air blows into the house as a beam of light catches dust motes dancing in the air.

I scan the sunroom, soaking in its imperfections — the missing strip of crown molding, the pile of teenager sneakers by the door, the sticky toy still clinging to the ceiling after my youngest son’s enthusiastic toss.

The coat tree, heavy with puffy parkas and knitted scarves, catches my eye. Should I pack them away, or will a surprise spring snowstorm remind us that winter isn’t quite finished?

Pushing aside a handful of markers left on the couch, I sink into the worn cushion. The hum of the furnace is finally silent, replaced by fresh air flowing from outside. I breathe it in, slow and deep, letting my breath become a prayer of its own.

I replay my dream from the night before about the magnolia trees that flank our home. In my dream, the trees’ blossoms burst forth in brilliant shades of pink, proclaiming spring had arrived. 

When I woke up, I tiptoed downstairs​​ like a child on Christmas morning, excited to see what might be waiting for me. But instead of spotting the fullness of spring, I found bare branches still holding brown buds.

Sometimes, the winters of our lives linger too long. We ache for the green hope of spring, the blue skies of summer, or the golden abundance of fall. 

This season — this in-between space — feels like a pause I’d rather skip. It’s hard for me to be present between the dead of winter and the new life of spring.

I want to leap to the glory of Easter without the solemn waiting of Lent.

I’m aware of my tendency to measure myself by invisible expectations, getting caught up in the shoulds that echo in my mind. I should set aside more time for prayer. I should have a cleaner house. But beneath the surface shoulds lie the deeper ones: I should be a more devoted Christian. I should be better. At everything.

Cool air drifts through the open window, carrying the faint scent of thawing earth. I glance at the trees’ bare branches swaying in the breeze and remember that trees are always working beneath the soil.

While the growth above ground pauses during winter, their roots continue to soak up nutrients, growing slowly but steadily. Even when branches appear lifeless, the roots draw water and nutrients from the ground, storing energy for the burst of spring growth to come. 

Dormancy doesn’t mean growth isn’t happening.

And that’s true for me and you, too.

It’s easy to forget that beneath all the shoulds of our lives, we are rooted in love.

In Ephesians 3:16-19, Paul writes to the church: “I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God” (NIV).

Just as roots anchor a tree and nourish its branches, God cares for us — rooting us in love and nurturing our souls amid our imperfections and insecurities. Psalm 1:3 reminds us that we can be like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in season. 

And when we release the shoulds that weigh us down — the compulsion to have it all together, to do more, to be more — we create space for God’s perfect love to nurture and nourish us, too.

Spotless homes and impeccable prayer records aren’t fruits of the Spirit. When we sit in the transitional seasons of our lives, we can trust that the Holy Spirit is at work within us, nurturing love, joy, peace, and patience — fruits that will bloom in their season (Galatians 5:22-23).

In this season of Lent, we wait. We trust that the work happening beneath the surface will lead to something beautiful in its time.

What season are you in right now? What is your soul aching for? Are you longing to see growth where it feels like nothing is happening?

As you reflect, let your breath become a prayer.

INHALE: O God, even when I can’t see it,

EXHALE: You are working within me.

Looking for a companion to guide you through the seasons of faith? Kayla’s book Every Season Sacred is available now—offering prayers and reflections to help you slow down, connect with your family, and experience God’s presence in the everyday moments of life together.

Leave a Comment