I have a confession to make: the month we are beginning now is one of my least favorite.  

Yes, January has an exalted beginning—I’ll grant that. It’s the time of new beginnings. The month when resolutions are written and new chapters begun. The season when the calendars flip and we celebrate a new spin around the sun. But the rush of resolve that comes on January 1 swiftly fizzles to nothingness, and for me, the rest of the month can be described with no other word than boring. 

I’m not quite sure why I feel this way. Maybe it’s the contrast with Christmas—after all, any month that follows the most grand and glittering time of the whole year is bound to be a letdown. Or maybe it’s simply because January itself is so vacant, a boring blank with no major holidays, no festive occasions, and no promise of anticipation. It might even be because for me, January is synonymous with disappointment. You see, in Arkansas, January is the month when the possibility of snow begins to swell to its height. But most Januarys, my wishes are only met with cold, drizzling rain. 

For all these reasons, January is the subdued month, the understated season, the blank space that sits like a patient puppy at the border of the year. Even the natural world feels the emptiness. Walk into the winter forest during this season, and you’ll find a world asleep. The trees are stark and silent, no leaves adorning their limbs or birds singing from their branches. The days are chilly, with a watered-down sun and a faded gray sky and a wind searching ceaselessly for the lost treasures of the other seasons. Even the wildlife are inactive—most are snuggled away in underground burrows or have migrated altogether. The whole world seems drowsy, the silence so great one can feel the gentle breath of the dreaming earth. 

So yes, January is a quiet month—in our human sphere and in the natural world. And as a result, it’s easy to dismiss this time as a boring blip on the calendar, a frustrating slog through a slow season. But in reality, January actually illustrates an important spiritual principle, one it’s all too easy to forget—the value of blank space. 

We don’t have much blank space in our lives anymore. Hectic schedules cram activity into every second of our time. Noise—from highways, appliances, radios, televisions—is the backdrop of our days. Cell phones and computers insist on our attention and scatter our focus. And social media digitally clones our lives, urging us to live not in the here and now, but in its airbrushed duplicate. 

Yet even as we drown in the overflow, we demand more of it. We’ve become a culture of constant stimulation, craving more and more to squeeze into our already bursting lives. So conditioned are we to this phenomenon that even a minute of downtime itches uncomfortably until we reach for our phones or flick through Facebook. Empty time, in fact, is considered unexciting (“There’s nothing to do!”), unpleasant (“I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts”), or even unethical (“I feel guilty if I’m wasting time.”)

But these attitudes toward empty space aren’t only unnatural; they’re unhealthy. We were designed for the blessing of these times, and our bodies, minds, and spirits crave them far more than we realize. Whether the blank space is a few suspended moments at the end of a busy day or an entire month where our schedule yawns slow, these empty spaces are what balance us and help us maintain spiritual health.  

If you don’t believe me, just look at the gospels. We’re told over and over that Jesus “withdrew from the crowds” in order to reflect and pray alone. In fact, He pursued these times even when it required Him to cut short a teaching, isolate Himself from His own disciples, or even send away those in search of healing. This is amazing, because it shows something incredible: the Son of God, the One Whose time on this earth was far more precious than ours could ever be, still knew the value of blank space. He recognized that without the margin on the edge of His ministry, His human nature would become ineffective. And so even with His meager time—only three short years of public ministry—He sacrificed priceless hours of so-called “productive” activities for the blessing of blank space.

But even when we accept that God prioritizes blank space, we may still struggle to understand why. What purpose could empty times possibly serve? And why would God place such an emphasis on something that seems so uninteresting and distasteful? We can find the answers by looking no farther than the drowsy world we already mentioned—the January forest. 

The primary and most obvious purpose of blank space is rest. Yes, the natural world is sleeping right now, but it’s a sleep that’s well-deserved. The growing season demands a riotous whirl of energy as every living thing pursues its purpose—birds lay eggs and raise young, trees sprout leaves and bear fruit, grass leaps long and flowers reach for rain and deer lead their dappled fawns. Even the autumn’s song, although slower, contains the harmony of harvest and the glorious unveiling of what has been ripening all summer long. With such activity, nothing in nature could possibly be prepared to begin the cycle again in spring without this time to rest. In the same way, we as humans can’t maintain a constant frenetic pace. We can force ourselves to push hard and heavy for a season, but all too soon, we’ll find ourselves limping. Our hectic seasons must be separated by buffers of blank space, or we won’t be renewed for the next challenge. 

But the rest found in a blank space isn’t passive mindlessness; instead, it walks hand in hand with reflection. Journey again into the January forest, and you enter a world without time, a monochrome space where memories can be examined, choices can be considered, and prayers can be offered—all against the backdrop of a settled and soothing silence. This is a sacred season, when we turn from holiday gaiety to the sterner work of evaluating our souls and charting our location along the journey of our lives. And this is always the gift of blank space to us. It provides us with an invaluable treasure that’s normally buried under busyness—the opportunity to stand outside ourselves and reflect on our place within the story, to decide what is good, what should change, and what we are called to pursue. 

And when we pair rest and reflection, we’ll harvest the third benefit of blank space—rejuvenation. In a beautiful paradox, this time of apparent emptiness is actually full of new life. You see, the January forest may masquerade as a dead and distant place, but that’s not the full story. Look closely at a snow-silvered branch, and you’ll see embryonic leaf buds perched along its length. Dig deep into the cold and crumbling soil, and you’ll find the green grace of the first fearless shoots tunneling upward from seeds and bulbs. Find white-tailed does amid the trees, and you’ll notice that they are carrying this spring’s generation of fawns. 

And this is the truth for us too. The times that to us seem the most achingly empty are often the times that are most full of the slow and silent work of God. In the blank seasons, He’s moving in us, often before we are aware, stirring spring into being—refining our character, perfecting our patience, increasing our faith, developing our story. And that is the hope that enables us to look beyond the dullness of a blank season, to the renewed destiny to which it leads. 

But perhaps you’re shaking your head. Perhaps it’s not that you doubt the benefit of blank space; it’s just that you can’t find any. You’re stretched and strained, sprinting at a frantic pace, and January is no different for you. You’d love a quiet season, but your schedule is bloated, your feet are weary, and you can’t remember the last time you drank the grace of a deep breath. 

If that’s you today, I have good news. You see, the benefits of blank space are accessible in any moment. You don’t have to wait for an entire season of stillness. Instead, you can begin by carving out not months, but moments. Find a minute or two at the start of your day, or a few empty seconds during your lunch break, or a free half-hour just at twilight. Don’t bring your phone, or your worries, or your to-do lists. Instead, hear your heartbeat, and feel your breath, and listen. At first it may be difficult to disentangle, to find a way to slip from doing to being. But soon you will feel it—the blessing of the blank space, the sacred silence through which God can speak. 

So yes—it’s January. And yes, things are quiet. But don’t let the silence fool you—this is a vital time. We need it for rest, for reflection, and for rejuvenation. Don’t skip over the blank space in your life or try to muffle it with distraction. Instead, know that even and especially in the silence, God is working in you.