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If you want to feel small, stand outside on a winter night.

Admittedly, I’m not usually out of doors after dark during the winter.  I happily roam the leafless woods all during the abbreviated afternoons of this season, but when the last drops of sunlight trickle from the landscape, I view the embers of sunset kindling on the western horizon as my cue to head for shelter.  I’d rather watch the dusk deepen by looking out a window—protected from its chill by the cocoon of warmth and light that is my home.

But occasionally, for one reason or another, I find myself outdoors on a winter night.  And when I do, it’s an experience unlike any other.

The darkness is abysmal—a deep, velvety black that seems to absorb all color.  Yet the stars are at their most brilliant, glittering like a handful of jewels tossed across the canopy of the heavens.  The night is silent, devoid of sound except for the occasional rasp of a fox’s bark or mournful query of an owl.  It’s so quiet I can hear my own breath, the swirling clouds floating toward the stars.  And on the bitterly cold nights, the nights when the chill tingles inside my nose, I sometimes bend down and run my fingers lightly over the dry and wilted grass, feeling the icy resistance of the winter night’s most signature feature—frost. 

In a strictly scientific sense, frost is nothing more than hardened water.  When cooled below a certain temperature, called the dew point, the water vapor in the air condenses into liquid.  If surrounding surfaces are colder than the water, it will crystallize into frost—a delicate arrangement of ice crystals that crawl along every outdoor surface.  Yet this bare-bones explanation doesn’t convey its destructive power.  It’s cursed by agriculturists from commercial farmers to home gardeners—just one touch from its frigid fingers turns the inherent water content in crops and outdoor plants to ice, rendering even the most vibrant plants a droopy, wilted mess when the sun rises the next day.  In addition, frost can create hazardous driving conditions; most of us have known the frustration of a frost-crusted windshield or the anxiety of maneuvering roadways slickened by the ice.  And let’s not forget the psychological factor:  just the sight of the iced-over trees or the crunch of the crispy grass under our feet makes us feel ten times colder! 

In many ways, frost is the very embodiment of the bleakness of winter—the congealed breath of the north wind, the tangible crust of cold on every living thing.  But in a paradoxical twist, frost is not only deadly and destructive.  It is also surprisingly, astonishingly, beautiful.    

If you’ve ever taken a close look at a frosted leaf or grass blade, you’ve doubtless noticed that far from being a single sheath of ice, frost is actually composed of trillions of individual crystals.  And the variety of patterns in which these crystals are arranged seems infinite.  Some designs are geometric—cubic crystals jumbled side by side.  Others are more abstract—feathery sweeps tracing lacy scallops on folded leaves.  Some are like miniature snowflakes—as if each stem of grass has been flocked in velour.  

When I see the frost, it’s a strange dichotomy.  I feel the bracing gloom of winter, the chill and the destruction and the bitterness.  Yet I can’t help but be captivated by the artistry of the ice—as if angels had stenciled the outlines of their wings on all creation.  On one hand frost is grim; on the other, it’s glorious.  And what a marvel—God takes something that is brutal and harsh, something that is responsible for leaking the life from the landscape, and transforms it into incredible beauty.  

Could the same principle be true in our lives?

Perhaps you’ve never watched your breath on frigid January nights, but I’m sure you’ve known winter in the way we all do—the winter of the soul.  One moment, we can be enjoying a summery life, full of joy and brightness and peace.  But in the next breath, the frost arrives—perhaps in the form of a disturbing diagnosis, a shocking phone call, an unexpected confession.  Whatever the specific situation, the effects of spiritual frost are the same—shrouding our souls in despair, freezing the life from our spirits, transforming our hitherto sunshiny lives into a bitter winter.  

“The most difficult season of the soul for most is winter,” notes pastor and writer Miriam Dixon.  “The winter of the soul is bleak, cold, dark, and fruitless.”  Anyone who’s ever watched their life take on arctic qualities would agree with these words.  Like the frost outside my window this time of year, these frigid days of the spirit cause destruction and loss of epic proportions.  Yet they also hold the potential, in the midst of great pain, for great beauty as well.   

This idea doesn’t settle smoothly into the framework of our thinking.  Beauty?  In this?  We feel that our circumstances are scarcely bearable—let alone beautiful.  Moreover, when we stand on the freezing turf of what used to be our life, when hoarfrost has crept into every corner of our souls, the pain is too intense to even imagine trying to find beauty.  In fact, the mere suggestion can feel flippant, insulting, and downright disrespectful.  When the clouds have blocked all trace of the sunlight, it’s too dark to hunt for a silver lining.  

If that’s you today, then please hear me—in no way am I suggesting that the winters of our souls are not painful.  Far from it!  In and of themselves, the frosty events that destroy our dreams are far from beautiful.  But what I am saying is that our circumstances, no matter how brutal, are being woven into a beautiful story—the intricate pattern that God is creating in our lives.  

Over and over again, this idea of beauty nested inside heartache is found in Scripture.  Jonah reacted in disobedience, fled from God, and was swallowed by a whale—yet his unlovely actions became part of the redemption of the wicked city of Nineveh.  Job lost his fortune, his family, his home, and his friends in one day—yet these tragic events set the stage for one of the greatest dramas of faith.  Joseph was kidnapped, abused, enslaved, accused, imprisoned, forgotten—yet with unfailing accuracy, each horrific event became a rung on the ladder to his destiny, and at the end of his story, he was able to gratefully proclaim that “God meant [all the trials] for good” (Genesis 50:20 ESV).   

“He has made everything beautiful in its time” (Ecclesiastes 3:11a ESV).  We read this verse and picture lovely things—butterflies and sunsets and first loves and happy endings.  When gazing on these joys, it’s easy to agree that yes, God makes things beautiful.  But what does the verse say?  “He has made everything beautiful.”  Not “some things.”  Not “happy things.”  Not “things we like.”  Everything.  Even the things that have sharp edges that slice our soul.  Even the things we want to scrub from our stories and never remember again.  Even the things that wake us up in the middle of the night and leer like phantoms in our most terrifying nightmares.  Beauty in everything.  In fact, God’s beautifying touch is most evident not in the things that are already charming but in those things that seem the ugliest—just as it is far more miraculous for His loveliness to be apparent in the cruel frost than in the springtime blossoms.  

But even when we acknowledge that God does this, we still don’t understand how.  How can God take the rawest, ugliest pieces of our life and infuse them with beauty?  The answer lies in one miraculous fact.  You see, God doesn’t just inject beauty into our lives.  God is the beauty—and He steps into our circumstances Himself. 

Think about the frost again.  If you’ve ever observed it, then you know that it is most spectacular not at night, but in the early morning—because that’s when the sun shines on it.  When the first beams of winter sunshine kiss the frost, it is transformed into a fairy palace of wonder—a shimmering exhibition that looks otherworldly.  All the colors of the rainbow shimmer above the crispy grass, and diamonds are tangled in the tree limbs.  The frost that is so destructive by night is positively breathtaking by day.  What makes the difference?  The presence of the sunlight—and the way the frost reflects its presence.  

My friends, without God, beauty does not exist—and certainly not in the hard and the hurtful.  There is no human way that the “frost” in our lives can ever be anything but soul-numbing ice.  The frostbitten corners of our hearts hold no attractiveness in and of themselves.  But when the Son rises on the landscape of your soul, when the glory of the Lord spills light on your circumstances, then His grace irradiates everything, and the shrapnel in our spirits becomes a dazzling example of His goodness.  What once was broken is beautified—all because of the Light.

And just as the frost sparkles in the sunlight, when God pours His love across our winter souls, we respond by reflecting His light.  In the joyous paradox of the Kingdom, Jesus transforms the very ice that froze our souls into a priceless jewel that dazzles onlookers.  This is why the greatest stories are born in the holy intersection of God’s light with your frosty life, for an awe-inspiring purpose:  “[God] comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God” (2 Corinthians 1:4 ESV).  When God brings beauty from our pain, we then receive the wonderful responsibility of breathing hope into someone else’s permafrost soul.  And when we look at our life through this lens, the events that brought so much hurt no longer seem like a string of senseless pain. Instead, they become carefully orchestrated opportunities to share the workings of God with those around you.  

In the hands of God, the “frost” in our lives is the beauty in our story, the blessing to others—and the beacon to the Lord.  You see, when we allow God to work in our bleakest times, He receives all the honor.  He’s showcased in His splendid glory as the God Who brings beauty even in the dead winters of our lives, the God Who derives growth and life and wonder out of something that seemed to hold only death and disaster.  

We’ve never needed this hope more than now.  My friends, in the past year, we’ve had many “frosty nights.”  Winter has clung to our spirits.  The ice on our souls has made it hard to breathe, and all the beauty God promised has seemed to have fled.  Perhaps it’s not surprising, then, that the usual tingling anticipation of New Year’s is muffled this time, replaced by tenuous anxiety and lingering insecurity.  We’re looking at this year with trepidation—the shrinking uncertainty of people who can’t bear to be hurt anymore.  

And so I want to encourage you today with these words:  in the most broken moments, there is beauty.  How can I be so sure?  Because in those painful times, there is also God.  He has always been here—working and waiting and wooing us back to Himself.  And as we face this new season, He will still be here.  If He can redeem even the most destructive winter force, the grim symbol of bleakness and desolation, then He can transform any painful circumstance we face.  Because when the frost in your spirit meets the healing light of the Son, nothing is ever the same.  

Now…I have a question for you! It’s my aim to grow closer to God in 2021, and with that goal, I’m looking for the best spiritual practices. And I want to hear from you! Do you have a Scripture that encouraged you, a spiritual discipline that helped you grow, or a prayer habit that’s been life-changing? Let me know by emailing me at wildernessashlyn@gmail.com or by commenting below. In addition to helping my own faith journey, your suggestions could be featured in an upcoming release! I look forward to hearing from you!