This is the silent season.

There’s a quiet in the winter woods, a quiet that’s not just heard, but felt.  The frogs are slumbering in the mud.  The clacking drone of insects has stilled.  The leaves no longer rustle on the denuded trees.  But perhaps the most notable source of silence is the absence of bird song. 

In the summer months in Arkansas, we’re blessed with an entire choir of migrating birds, swaying in the treetops from April to October and enchanting us with their signature songs.  The white-eyed vireo gives a chuckling series of notes that sounds more like a wind-up toy than a bird.  The indigo bunting warbles a melodic phrase.  The great crested flycatcher has a piercing whistle, the downy woodpecker gives an explosive squeaking trill, and the wood thrush delivers a haunting flute-like call at every dusk and dawn.

But now, all of these birds, along with many others, have soared southward, escaping winter in the tropical rain forests of Central and South America.  The variety of birds present in the woods is far less this time of year, and of the ones that remain, most aren’t singing.  Why sing, in the dark and cold, when the young birds have flown and the next season of nesting is still months away?  Why sing, when the daylight drains early in the afternoons and the nights are bitter with frost?  Why sing, when winter has muted even the memory of spring?

But there’s one notable exception—one bird that defies all the logic.

I stand on my country road at dusk, hands burrowed into pockets, breath lingering in the air.  Dusk dims purple all around, and with it comes an extra edge of cold, sharpening the air and burning inside my nose.  But the dark and the cold can’t discourage me from waiting for what I’ve come to hear.  My eyes fixed on the shrubs that line the roadside, I wait.

And there it is—the song of the White-throated Sparrow.

These little birds are, in a way, unremarkable, at least at first glance.  They don’t boast striking coloration—just a plain brown pattern with a jaunty black-and-white cap and namesake white throat.  They’re easy to ignore—they spend most of their time hopping about at ground level, overturning last year’s dry leaves to forage for food.  They’re not rare or exotic—multitudes of them disperse across the continental United States in winter, having come south from Canada’s boreal forests.  Yet despite their humble habits, they are the heirs of a special gift—the courage to sing in winter.  

As I walk back home down that rural road, I’m enveloped by the song.  There must be a hundred or more of these little birds along the length of the path.  Their song rises like a prayer:  “Oh sweet Canada-Canada-Canada-Canada!”—intermingled with chirpings and twitterings and whistlings.  Frost shivers the world, and the darkness dismays, and yet the song is clear and courageous.  As if they’re defying the dark, as if they’re not concerned by the cold, they sing and sing and sing as the darkness falls, as the winter wears on, in the rock bottom of the year.  

This song is not just comforting to me; it’s also a little convicting.  You see, I don’t often find myself singing in the darkness.  When my life spirals into the whirlpool of winter, I’m more likely to drown myself in despair, wallow in self-pity, or pout at the injustice of my circumstances.  But I believe that we’re called to praise God no matter what.  To lift up His Name even in winter—especially in winter.  

I’m reminded of the biblical story of Habakkuk.  This obscure Old Testament prophet found himself in a season of doubt and confusion—just as we often do.  So when faced not only with personal turmoil but also with the chaos of his disintegrating nation, what was Habakkuk’s response?  He chose the route of radical realignment—praise.  “Even though the fig trees have no blossoms, and there are no grapes on the vines; even though the olive crop fails, and the fields lie empty and barren; even though the flocks die in the fields, and the cattle barns are empty, yet I will rejoice in the LORD! I will be joyful in the God of my salvation!” (Habakkuk 3:17-18 NLT).  Faith rings in every syllable of this bold affirmation.  Like the white-throated sparrows, Habakkuk sang in winter.  

Don’t get me wrong—this doesn’t mean we hide behind Pollyanna façades.  God isn’t desiring plastic people with nothing but shiny smiles; Scripture makes it clear that lament is a reverent spiritual art.  Habakkuk himself, verses earlier, honestly acknowledged his emotions:  “How long, O Lord, must I call for help?  But you do not listen!…I cry, but you do not come to save” (Habakkuk 1:1, 2b NLT).  So the key is not found in submerging our painful moments; rather, it’s in refusing to be submerged by them.  It’s in passing through the valley of lament—in acknowledging the pangs of winter—and yet still choosing, even through tears, to praise.  And if we can choose this counterintuitive approach, we will reap great and unexpected blessings.   

First of all, it builds strength within us.  As I listen to the white-throated sparrows, I’m reminded that every bird can sing in the spring, when the breeze is warm and the sun is shining and the earth is laughing with the riot of the growing season.  But to sing in the dead of winter?  That takes courage and strength.  In the same way, praising God when life is good and flowing smoothly doesn’t refine us or craft our character, but praising Him in the darkness certainly does.  

Secondly, it brings hope.  Perhaps it’s fanciful, but as I listen to the song of the sparrows—Oh sweet Canada-Canada-Canada-Canada!—I can’t help but imagine that they’re dreaming about spring, looking forward to the day when the frost will thaw and the sun will sparkle and they will spread their wings northward, bound for a halcyon summer in Canada.  And the effects of this hope ripple beyond the birds to we who hear them as well.  Their song reminds us too that winter will not have the last word.  Just so, when we praise God, we’re reminded to look beyond our present trials to “Christ…the Hope of glory” (Colossians 1:27b ESV) and our ultimate destination—eternity.  And when others see our hope shining bright, they find a fresh courage themselves.  

But how can we do this?  When everything in us is crying out in pain—when winter has frozen every hope—how can we possibly bring ourselves to praise?  

For the answer to this, we need look no further than the story of Job.  If ever there was a man who didn’t feel like praising God, surely Job was that man.  When Satan is given permission by God to strike Job, he does it in a big way—destroying his children, his wealth, his marriage, his reputation, and his health.  And notice how arrogant Satan’s claims are:  “Stretch out your hand and touch all that he has,” he sneers at God, “and he will curse you to your face” (Job 1:11 ESV).

Why does Satan make this boast?  Because he knows that this is natural human behavior.  Because he is acutely aware that in pain, God is the standard scapegoat for our suffering, and it’s against Him we rail first.  But in the midst of trials—aching, alone, misunderstood, mocked, diseased, impoverished—Job cries out not cursing, not blasphemy, but this faith-filled response:  “I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth.  And after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God” (Job 19:25-26 ESV).  In the midst of his winter, Job’s life becomes a wonder—living proof that with God’s help, a human soul can still cling to faith.  

And that’s the secret.  Our praise isn’t a matter of feeling; it’s a matter of faith.  It’s not an overflow of emotion; it’s a conscious choice of the will.  It’s not a canned response to blessing; it’s a resolute expression of trust.  

“Should we accept only good things from the hand of God and never anything bad?” Job asked (Job 2:10b NLT).  Friend, the same question is facing us.  Is God only worthy in the sunshine?  Can we trust and praise Him only in the springtime of our lives?  Or can we, like the sparrows, have the faith to sing in the winter?  

We know the truth:  God is worthy of all praise.  Not just the praise that feels good.  Not the praise that comes easily.  Not the praise delivered on sunny afternoons.  All praise.  That includes the broken praise, the bitter praise, and yes, even the tear-stained song that walks hand-in-hand with the limping lament.  

If the sparrows sing to Him, surely we can stand in a winter world and do the same.  And I’m convinced that if we can, then wonderful things happen.  The God Who “inhabits the praise of His people” draws near.  And hope and strength begin to surge within our souls—the hope and strength that will carry us through the winter and into the glories of what lies ahead.

So yes, this January world is silent and sullen.  The dark and the cold seem to have the upper hand.  But when the dusk settles down, the praise rises up—the great song of the sparrows.  The cold may chill, and the dark may dismay, but the sparrows sing on.  And I only pray for the courage and the trust to mingle my song with theirs.  

Did you enjoy this post? What are some things that inspire you to courageously praise? Let me know in the comments!

Photo credits: Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash