Is it just me?
Every winter I become deeply suspicious of my plants.
Never mind that they were planted correctly. Never mind that they thrived all summer. Never mind that they are perfectly suited to my zone and have handled far worse winters than the one we just had. Logic would suggest everything should be just fine.
And yet… all winter long I’m convinced they’re probably dead.
Every day I wander around the yard visiting each sleeping tree, shrub, and plant like a slightly anxious relative in a hospital waiting room. I peer at branches. I squint at stems. I gently scratch bark. I look for any tiny hint of a bud.
Anything.
Then one day—finally—there it is. The smallest little bump of green. A tiny bud. Proof of life.
And suddenly I’m flooded with relief and excitement like I just personally resurrected the thing.
What is that?
Why do we do this?
Because if we’re being honest, there’s always this strange little tension between what we know and what we feel.
We know how plants work. We know dormancy is part of the process. We know trees sleep through winter and wake up when the time is right. We know that healthy plants, planted properly, in the right place, generally do exactly what they’re supposed to do.
And yet… every winter our confidence takes a little vacation.
Somewhere between the first frost and the last cold snap, logic quietly slips out the back door and doubt moves in. Suddenly we’re out there staring at perfectly normal dormant sticks wondering if we’ve somehow killed everything.
It’s the gardener’s version of a small crisis of faith.
Not dramatic. Just that quiet little voice that whispers, “But what if this year it doesn’t come back?”
And the funny thing is, every spring the plants keep their side of the bargain.
They wake up.
They leaf out.
They bloom.
They carry on as if they never doubted themselves for a second.
Meanwhile we’re standing there like, “Oh! You’re alive! I knew it all along!”
Which… if we’re honest… is only partially true.
And somewhere in all of this there’s a gentle little reminder tucked into the rhythm of the seasons. The Bible talks about seeds, seasons, vines, branches, and fruit an awful lot. I don’t think that’s an accident. Growing things has always been one of the ways God teaches patient people a few quiet lessons.
Seeds disappear into the soil for a while before anything happens.
Trees go dormant before they grow again.
Roots do their work where no one can see.
And the whole time life is still there, even when everything above the surface looks still and silent.
I think sometimes faith feels a little like winter in the garden.
You know the promises. You’ve seen them come true before. You’ve watched things grow and flourish and bear fruit. But then a quiet season comes along where everything looks still… and you find yourself squinting at the branches wondering if anything is happening at all.
And yet the pattern keeps repeating itself.
Spring always comes back.
The buds appear.
The leaves unfold.
Life returns right on schedule.
The plants never seem worried about it.
Maybe that’s the lesson.
Maybe part of growing things—plants or faith or patience—is learning to trust the season you’re in, even when it looks like nothing is happening.
The trees know spring is coming.
And every year, apparently, they’re right.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go stare at a few more branches and make sure everyone is still on schedule.
