New Life Breaking Through

We planted the seed while the tears of our grief soaked the ground. I remember the days when it felt as though the world itself was mourning with us—when the sky seemed to lose its light, when the colors of life faded into lifeless brown. Everything felt barren, uncertain, cold.

It is one thing to walk through grief; it is another to stand in the winter of the soul, where the wind bites and the earth turns hard as stone. That is what our journey has felt like at times—bitter winds of diagnosis, the icy silence of questions without answers, the long nights when hope itself seems frozen over.

And yet—even in the silence—something is happening beneath the surface. The seed we planted with our tears has not been wasted. It rests beneath the snow, hidden from our eyes, but alive all the same. While I cannot always see it, I believe it: silently, life is stirring.

This is the mystery of God’s work, isn’t it? We see loss, and He sees planting. We feel only the weight of winter, and He is already planning the song of spring. The waiting feels endless, the grief feels heavy, but hope keeps whispering: Spring is coming.

And so I cling to that hope with both hands, refusing to let go even when my heart grows tired. Because hope is not wishful thinking—it is a Person. Christ Himself is my hope. He is the One who buried His own body in the cold, dark ground, only for life to burst forth three days later in a resurrection that forever changed history. If He conquered the grave, then He can surely bring life where I see only loss.

I think of how the disciples must have felt on that dark Friday. The sky grew black, the earth shook, and the One they loved most breathed His last. To them, it must have looked like the end of all things—like winter would reign forever. But what they did not know was that resurrection was already on its way. Spring was coming.

So I remind myself of this truth when the days with my husband feel impossibly heavy, when seizures steal peace and depression clouds joy. I remind myself when I feel weary, carrying burdens that seem to have no end. I remind myself when the future looks uncertain and the cold winds of despair whisper that nothing will ever change. Spring is coming.

And even now, I can see the signs. Hear the birds start to sing—those little glimpses of joy that still find their way into our days. A smile after a hard night. A moment of laughter that breaks through the heaviness. A flicker of strength in his eyes when I thought he had none left. These are the first notes of spring’s song.

Feel the life in the breeze—those unexpected mercies that remind me God is still with us. A phone call from someone who cares. A verse of Scripture that seems written for me in that very moment. A prayer that carries peace into my soul when I cannot find it on my own.

Watch the ice melt away. I have seen it happen slowly, like frost retreating under the warmth of the sun. Days when fear loosens its grip. Days when despair does not have the final word. Days when I realize my heart, though heavy, is still beating with faith.

And then—the children come out to play. New life appears where I thought nothing could grow again. Laughter rings out. Smiles return. The ground that seemed dead begins to stir.

Spring is coming. Spring is coming.

It may not come all at once, and it may not look exactly as I imagined, but it is certain. Because God is faithful. He has promised that those who sow in tears will reap with joy (Psalm 126:5). He has promised that He makes everything beautiful in its time (Ecclesiastes 3:11). He has promised that weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes with the morning (Psalm 30:5).

And I believe Him.

So I watch the ground with expectation, even in the chill of winter. I tell my heart: there is something moving beneath the surface, something breaking through, new life breaking through. I cannot always see it, but I trust it. God is not finished with our story, not finished with my husband, not finished with me.

This is the hope that carries me. The winter will not last forever. The grief we sowed in tears is not the end of our harvest. For the same Christ who meets us in the darkness is also the Christ who breathes resurrection into barren places. He is both the Man of Sorrows who weeps with us and the risen Lord who turns mourning into dancing.

Spring is coming.

And when it does, I believe we will see not only the restoration of what felt lost, but also the beauty of new things we never expected—joy deeper than we’ve known before, love stronger than the storms we’ve endured, peace more unshakable than the fears that once haunted us. Because this is who He is: the God who brings life out of death, who turns ashes into beauty, who makes streams in the wilderness and gardens in the desert.

So even now, as my heart feels heavy, I will not let go of hope. I will hold fast to the promise that what we have sown in pain will not be wasted. I will keep looking for signs of life, listening for the birds, watching for the ice to melt, and waiting with expectation.

Because the story of our lives is not defined by the winters we endure, but by the springs that God promises.

And spring—it’s just about here.