Hope through spring's thaw

Through the iciness of winter, there is always hope for spring

by

Kim Findlay

Have you ever wondered if God has a sense of humor? Recently, our editor for the Redbud Hyphen reached out to our guild asking for essays and poems and such for The Hyphen. I quickly responded, yes!

I started thinking about spring and its meaning, concluding how spring fosters hope. Great, I thought to myself, I'll write about hope! Hope that there is more to life than what we see. Hope that God is real and He means all that His Word says. Hope that pain and sorrow don't last forever. Hope that joy really does come in the morning.

As quickly as I settled on the topic, my family and I received surprising news. My mom, who's battled diffuse B-cell lymphoma for the past many years, was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. Two active cancers at the same time.

Jesus, be near.

The pit of darkness that sorrow stirs stormed my heart with the fierceness of a New England nor'easter even as my longing for true, biblical hope hovered near.

I'm curious how God allows that to happen—a yearning for hope, just as I need to write about it.

Spring holds tender space for my family. Not only is March my birthday month, but nestled right in the beginning is the anniversary of my youngest daughter's death.

Yes, I'm one of those moms who lost a child, living everyone's worst nightmare. The kind of nightmare you hear about but aren't sure how to react once you meet it, and who often surprises people into silence when asked, how many kids do you have? After all, how do you respond when someone shares, five by choice, two by birth, and the youngest of those two is in heaven?

Five years, one month, and fifteen days after Emma was born, she breathed her last right on the second day of March in 2005. A typical day became a defining day, forever altering my life. A fire destroyed my home and snatched my sweet girl away.

To say I fell headlong into a pit that day would be like saying Chicago weather is unpredictable. Obviously.

What wasn't obvious was how I would survive. Yes, I knew Jesus. Yes, I believed in Him, in His Word. I worked for Him (translation: I worked at a church). But this living without my sweet girl in this tenuous and tender dance of joy and sorrow, love and grief, loss and hope? I didn't want to simply survive this season of my life. I determined to not allow it to define or control me.

Perhaps you can relate and see threads of your own story interwoven among mine. Tears well up, blurring the screen because, you know. You know precisely what I'm talking about—where sorrow hovers. You. just. know.

"Let all that I am wait quietly before God, for my hope is in him" (Psalm 62:5, NLT).

The years following Emma's death felt like perpetual winter. C.S. Lewis explained it this way: Always winter, and never Christmas. Waiting through the frigidness of that season became my new normal. Waiting for our house to be rebuilt. Waiting for the waves of grief to subside. Waiting to see God work, to make sense of this tragedy. Waiting to survive, to see beauty in the sorrow. 

There was beauty during those years, just as there's beauty on a winter morning as the sun strikes the snow, causing it to sparkle like diamonds. Beauty surrounded us through the gifts of strangers, friends, and family. Gifts of time and resources replaced clothes and furniture and ultimately built a beautiful new home where devastation once reigned.

During the waiting, God provided strength to bury my sweet Emma's body six weeks after she died and courage to choose to trust Him, no matter what. He offered peace amid chaos and filled me with hope that His Word was true, that He knew what He had allowed and would use it for good. He drew me closer, calling others to do the same. He revealed His faithfulness through His constant presence, whispered words of comfort, and tender declarations of love. His truth became alive as it showed up real and tangible throughout my everyday life. He met me in the darkness of sorrow and shone brightly through the love, hope, and patience of His Son, Jesus.

"For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland" (Isaiah 43:19, NLT).

Years later, the thaw began, and I started seeing the "something new" God promised. The trauma and chaos of the previous years subsided, and peace reigned. Christmas finally arrived. Days of sorrow lessened to moments. Though memories of Emma still brought tears, they soothed my soul. Deep, full-thickness healing occurred, and I longed to embrace the beauty of spring. 

As I write, thoughts of my mom's newest diagnosis stir up another memory. There was a little lake near my rented home. One day I felt the pull to breathe fresh air and sweep away the cobwebs that clouded my mind. As I walked, I noticed winter's hold on the lake had begun to thaw. Sure, the ice was still thick toward the middle, but released from its grip, the outer edges of water flowed with ease—a perfect visual of the journey of my heart.

As I stepped closer and sloshed through the melting snow, I remembered: Spring is coming. There is absolutely nothing I can do, nothing that can happen, that will stop it. I can't wish it away or wish it to come sooner. I can't hide away and hibernate until its arrival. I must walk through its ugly thaw and take every sloshy step, feet wet, the hem of my pants soaked, one step at a time, believing that beneath the ugliness of the thaw, beauty yearned to burst forth.

We don't want the messiness, though, do we? We long for the beauty of spring's flowers yet dread traipsing through the messiness of spring's thaw. But the thaw is necessary for growth, nourishing the ground for the coming months. Hope is a bit like that. At times it looks messy, uncertain, ugly, and inconvenient, yet vital for our growth. Hope is like trudging through the frigid waters of melting snow, slipping in its muddy wake, shifting our eyes from the mess, and fixing them on the Maker. It takes patience, strength, and great courage to allow the spring thaw to work in our hearts and to trust that work even when we can't see the beauty yet.

"And the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail" (Isaiah 58:11, ESV).

I don't know what tomorrow holds for my mom, or our family, but I trust God is still at work, still calling hope forth from sorrow. He's creating something beautiful through our circumstances and in our lives, even those messy and painful parts.

A Midwestern transplant now living in New England with her blended family, Kim Findlay writes about the intersection of faith, life in the middle, and the pursuit of God's goodness, especially through grief and disappointment. You can follow her on Instagram @kimdotfindlay, Substack at

This Rooted Life Co

or connect with her at www.kimfindlay.com.