Lessons From My Winter Garden
“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish…so is My word that goes out from My mouth: It will not return to Me empty.”
— Isaiah 55:10–11 (NIV)
I am making my very first attempt at a winter garden. And let me be clear: I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing. Most of my “training” comes from overly enthusiastic YouTube gardeners who clearly have more time and more sunshine than I do.
I’m pretty sure I’ve already spent more money on soil, seeds, and enthusiasm than I’ll ever get back in vegetables. But honestly? For once… I don’t care.
Because this garden isn’t about vegetables at all.
It’s a grief-release project. A quiet place to pour the pain instead of pouring it on somebody. A space where my hands can work while my heart finally breathes.
The “easy 30-minute” mini greenhouse?
It took three hours, two episodes of repentance, and one conversation with myself about whether I should have just grown plastic plants and called it a day.
Digging in the dirt made my back hurt, and apparently I thought a cubic foot of topsoil stretched farther than it does, because three trips to the garden center fixed that delusion.
Then came the bugs—whole nations of them—each one convinced they belonged in my hair.
But the moment that froze me was this one:
I realized it had been nineteen years since I actually sat—really sat—in my own backyard.
Nineteen years since I noticed the quiet.
Nineteen years since I gave myself permission just to exist.
So here I am, tending this little winter garden—measuring, digging, seeding, watering.
Not because I’m expecting a miracle harvest,
but because there is healing in putting your fingers in the dirt and hope in watching something grow in a cold season.
And wouldn’t you know it…
Right as the first snow has fallen, my mama-heart has kicked in full force.
I keep peeking out the window like a nervous parent on the first day of school.
“Lord, protect my babies.”
My seedlings.
My fragile green hopes.
My little reminders that even in winter, life is possible.
And here is the ironic blessing of it all:
– The “easy carrots” have not even whispered.
– The “super easy spinach” has barely shown a shy fleck of green.
– But the tough plants?
The kale and Brussels sprouts—those winter warriors—are popping up like four-leaf clovers.
Of course they are.
Because the things we expect to flourish don’t always flourish first.
And the things we expect to struggle often surprise us with their strength.
Just like us.
Some seasons of our lives are carrots—quiet, hidden, working underground where no one can see.
Some seasons are spinach—delicate, hesitant, unsure.
But some seasons?
We are kale and Brussels sprouts—growing in the cold, thriving in hardship, lifting our heads in weather that would take out weaker
The snowfall isn’t a threat.
It’s a promise.
If God sends snow to water the earth,
He will also watch over the seeds He told me to plant—
the ones in my garden
and the ones in my soul.
And just like these unexpected winter greens,
I believe I’m going to grow through this season
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