I recently came across a helpful word: wintering. Just as winter is a time of slowing down in much of the natural world, author Katherine May uses this word to describe our need to rest and recuperate during life’s “cold” seasons. I found the analogy helpful after losing my father to cancer, which sapped me of energy for months. Resentful of this forced slowing down, I fought against my winter, praying summer’s life would return. But I had much to learn.

Ecclesiastes famously says there’s “a season for every activity under the heavens”—a time to plant and to harvest, to weep and to laugh, to mourn and to dance (3:1–4). I had read these words for years but only started to understand them in my wintering season. For though we have little control over them, each season is finite and will pass when its work is done. And while we can’t always fathom what it is, God is doing something significant in us through them (v. 11). My time of mourning wasn’t over. When it was, dancing would return. Just as plants and animals don’t fight winter, I needed to rest and let it do its renewing work.

“Lord,” a friend prayed, “would You do Your good work in Sheridan during this difficult season.” It was a better prayer than mine. For in God’s hands, seasons are purposeful things. Let’s submit to His renewing work in each one.

In ad 155, the early church father Polycarp was threatened with death by fire for his faith in Christ. He replied, “For eighty and six years I have been his servant, and he has done me no wrong. And how can I now blaspheme my king who saved me?” Polycarp’s response can be an inspiration for us when we face extreme trial because of our faith in Jesus, our King.

Just hours before Jesus’ death, Peter boldly pledged His allegiance to Christ: “I will lay down my life for you” (John 13:37). Jesus, who knew Peter better than Peter knew himself, replied, “Very truly I tell you, before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times!” (v. 38). However, after Jesus’ resurrection, the same one who’d denied Him began to serve Him courageously and would eventually glorify Him through his own death (see 21:16–19).

Are you a Polycarp or a Peter? Most of us, if we’re honest, are more of a Peter with a “courage outage”—a failure to speak or act honorably as a believer in Jesus. Such occasions—whether in a classroom, boardroom, or breakroom—needn’t indelibly define us. When those failures occur, we must prayerfully dust ourselves off and turn to Jesus, the One who died for us and lives for us. He’ll help us to be faithful to Him and courageously live for Him daily in difficult places.  

After an officer searched me, I stepped into the county jail, signed the visitor’s log, and sat in the crowded lobby. I prayed silently, watching adults fidgeting and sighing while young children complained about the wait. Over an hour later, an armed guard called a list of names including mine. He led my group into a room and motioned us to our assigned chairs. When my stepson sat in the chair on the other side of the thick glass window and picked up the telephone receiver, the depth of my helplessness overwhelmed me. But as I wept, God assured me that my stepson was still within His reach.

In Psalm 139, David said to the Lord, “You know me . . . you are familiar with all my ways” (vv. 1–3). His proclamation of an all-knowing God led to a celebration of His intimate care and protection (v. 5). Overwhelmed by the vastness of God’s knowledge and the depth of His personal touch, David asked two rhetorical questions: “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?” (v. 7).

When we or our loved ones are stuck in situations that leave us feeling hopeless and helpless, God’s hand remains strong and steady. Even when we believe we’ve strayed too far for God’s loving redemption, we’re always within His reach.

Turning eighteen ushered in a new era in my daughter’s life: legally an adult, she now has the right to vote in future elections and will soon embark on life after graduating from high school. This shift has instilled in me a sense of urgency—I have precious little time with her under my roof to impart to her the wisdom she needs to face the world on her own: how to manage finances, stay alert to world issues, and make sound decisions.

My sense of duty to equip my daughter to handle her life is understandable. After all, I love her and desire for her to flourish. But I realized that while I have an important role, it’s not solely—or even primarily—my job. In Paul’s words to the Thessalonians—a group of people he considered his children in the faith because he’d taught them about Jesus—we see him urge them to help one another but ultimately he trusts their growth to God. He acknowledges that God will “sanctify [them] through and through” (1 Thessalonians 5:14–15, 23).

Paul trusts God to do what he cannot: prepare them—“spirit, soul and body”—for the eventual return of Jesus (v. 23). Though his letters to the Thessalonians contained instructions, Paul’s trust in God for their well-being and preparedness teaches us that growth in the lives of those we care for is ultimately in God’s hands (1 Corinthians 3:6).

During the discussion of a book on the Holy Spirit written by a 94-year-old German theologian named Jürgen Moltmann, an interviewer asked him: “How do you activate the Holy Spirit?” Moltmann, befuddled by the question, shifted, trying to understand it. With humor, the filmmaker tried again: “Can you take a pill? Do the pharmaceutical companies [deliver the Spirit]?” Moltmann’s bushy eyebrows shot up. Shaking his head, he grinned, answering in accented English. “What can I do? Don’t do anything. Wait on the Spirit, and the Spirit will come.”

Moltmann highlighted our wrongheaded belief that our energy and expertise make things happen. Acts reveals that God makes things happen. The book recounts the start of the church—and there’s nothing here about human strategy or impressive leadership. Rather, the Spirit arrived “like the blowing of a violent wind” into a room of frightened, helpless, and bewildered disciples (2:2). Next, the Spirit shattered all ethnic superiorities by gathering people who were at odds into one new community. The disciples were as shocked as anyone to see what God was doing within them. They didn’t make anything happen; the “Sprit enabled them” (v. 4).

The church—and our shared work in the world—isn’t defined by what we can do. We’re entirely dependent on what only the Spirit can do. This allows us to be both bold and restful. On this, the day we celebrate Pentecost, may we wait for the Spirit and respond.

The tale is told that after yet another stop on Albert Einstein’s lecture tour, his chauffeur mentioned that he’d heard enough of the speech that he could give it. Einstein suggested they switch places at the next college, as no one there had seen his picture. The chauffer agreed and delivered a fine lecture. Then came the question-and-answer period. To one aggressive inquirer, he replied, “I can see you’re a brilliant professor, but I’m surprised you would ask a question so simple that even my chauffeur could answer it.” His “chauffeur” did—Albert Einstein himself. So ends the fun but fictional story.

Daniel’s three friends were truly on the hot seat. King Nebuchadnezzar threatened to throw them into a blazing furnace if they didn’t worship his idol. He asked, “What god will be able to rescue you from my hand?” (v. 15). The friends still refused to bow, so the king heated the furnace seven times hotter and had them tossed in.

They didn’t go alone. An “angel” (v. 28), perhaps Jesus Himself, joined them in the fire, keeping them from harm and answering the king’s question (vv. 24–25). Nebuchadnezzar conceded that “no other god can save in this way,” and he praised the “God of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego” (vv. 28–29).

At times, we may be in over our heads and unable to solve this problem or answer that question. But Jesus stands with those who serve Him. He’ll carry us.