Winter Whether

Post Author: Jessica Petersen

For the last few years, I have been in an extended period of discernment. For many months, I found myself constantly asking whether I should take on something new, stop doing something else, or change direction entirely. I felt unsettled, no longer at home in certain aspects of my life and work. The winds of change were blowing, but I had no idea where they would take me. What was clear was that I was entering a new season, in my life and in my ministry.

Now it is winter. I don’t mean actual winter, but a metaphorical winter, divorced from the timetables of the seasons in the natural world. My “winter” began in July 2020, when I stepped away from working in pastoral ministry for an undetermined period of time.

“I learned that, without their leaves, my branches could serve as shelter to different creatures in winter than in summer.” — Jessica Peterson

As I move through this transition, I’ve been imagining myself as a tree, rooted and growing. Like a tree shedding its leaves in autumn and moving into a period of dormancy in winter, I know that winter is not the end. Spring will come again, and summer will follow, each in their own time.

Winter is always preceded by autumn, the season of letting go. In my life, autumn was ushered in by the realization that it was time to leave the church I was serving. I had worked hard to produce and nourish every one of the leaves that I thought defined my work and my ministry. With the changing of the seasons, the time had come for those leaves to fall to the ground, as one season ended and another began, both for me and for the church I served. After the leaves dropped off the tree, I stood bare – still a child of God, still a disciple of Christ, still a pastor – but without a church to serve. It was winter.

While I grieved my way through the shedding of leaves in autumn, I found solace and joy in the dormancy of winter, that restful time during which I could focus on my needs and those of my family without expending energy on growing and nurturing leaves. Slowing down was a gift. It was life-giving, nourishing, freeing. There was openness and space. I had the opportunity to reflect, to rest in my identity as a child of God, which is the trunk that holds up my branches – those other identities I carry – mother, wife, pastor, daughter, friend. In winter, for the first time, there was enough.

In winter, I could see anew. With the leaves gone, I had fresh perspective on the world around me. While I did not know how long winter would last, intuitively, I knew it was best to snuggle in and get cozy. There was no sense pretending it was spring; that is not the way of things. I settled into my new “normal” – which mostly revolved around virtual Kindergarten and wrangling a toddler – and moved through my days one at a time, in a repeating pattern, leaning into the liturgies of parenting and household management. I didn’t look for a church to serve or for another full-time job. I did as much writing as I could make time for. I took on some contract work and I learned that, without their leaves, my branches could serve as shelter to different creatures in winter than in summer. I wrote curriculum for my denominational publishing house. I learned how to build a website and experimented with graphic design. I partnered with a friend to create a training program for faith formation leaders. It was energizing to shelter these winter creatures in my branches, even if some only visited briefly.

It was a rainy winter, with plenty of water to sustain me. Each time I began to feel dry, rain fell, reminding me of the waters of baptism and my identity as child of God. The wind and freezing temperatures were harsh at times, and on those days, I sometimes hoped and prayed for opportunities to make decisions, to think about whether to do this or that, instead of the never-ending ordinariness of pandemic life with small children. But when it comes to discernment, winter is not the time for making decisions. Winter is a time for waiting, for taking care of oneself, and trusting that spring will come when its time.

One unseasonably warm day in winter, a tiny bud appeared on one of my branches in the form of a potential new position. I wondered if it was time for me to serve a church again. That tiny bud froze quickly due to frost and ice, lots of snow on the ground, reminding me that winter is not yet over. But that solitary bud was significant. Though it did not stay long enough to grow into a leaf, it reminded me that I do remember how to bloom, how to produce and nourish leaves, and that I will do it again someday.

The snow has melted now, the ice is gone. In fact, it is unseasonably warm again, so soon after the snow. Something tells me that winter is not yet over, and yet, spring is coming. Another bud appeared yesterday. I don’t know whether this one will bloom and transform into a leaf, but I can feel the energy surging through my trunk and my branches, the change deep within me, telling me that spring is on the way. What will this spring be like? I don’t know yet, but I trust there will be enough rain to sustain me as I begin to produce and nourish leaves once again.