I am captured each time I visit a World War II cemetery in Europe. My very first visit was to the American Cemetery in Margraten, Netherlands where 8301 white crosses, set in perfect symmetry across an expansive, manicured lawn, mark the graves of those who sacrificed their lives to purchase Europe’s freedom. In the memorial which greets you as you enter its gates, 1722 names are engraved along two long walls to commemorate the American soldiers who lie in unknown graves. Engraved tributes inspire gratitude to these fallen heroes and urge a new generation to walk in their stead. A verse from Flanders Fields is my favourite of these: To you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high.
Between the monument’s walls lies a quiet pool, and at its far end stands a bronze statue. On one side is a grieving woman with doves hovering at her shoulder. At the other side a tree, diminished to a meagre stump by the ravages of war, sends out one small shoot. Its simplicity declares that new life springs even from what has been devastated.
A few days after my visit to this cemetery, I met the man who would become my husband. The year that followed was filled with the wonder of new love, a wedding, and all the hopes a newlywed couple shares. But before long our joy was shattered by a series of miscarriages, after which we surrendered our dream to be parents. While I was still raw with pain, I found myself amidst the wreckage of vocational dreams, with the need to forge a new vision and a new place of service which fit the new reality of my life.
My soul wrestling stretched for five seemingly endless years. Life went on, just as it did on the Continent during WWII. Moments of laughter and meaning weren’t absent, but the long winter season held dormant any signs of new life.
I remember times when I could barely pray, when my best attempt was a simple prayer for help, a cry of desperate need which was uttered without much faith that it would be heard or answered. In those darkest of times, one thing that I could–and did–do, faithfully, was to sit and be present to God. There in the stillness, the calm assurance that God was with me comforted my weary, injured soul. The comfort birthed hope, and from hope emerged the faith to take some faltering steps forward.
Little by little, in the dark soil of my soul winter, my theology was re-shaped, and my sense of self was re-ordered. And then spring arrived. One small shoot, breaking through the devastated remnants of my life, ushered in new life. The new growth held the potential of more strength, more joy and fulfillment because of the below-the-surface work which had taken place in the darkness. How beautiful was the day when I could say with joy, “See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come (Song of Solomon 2:11-12a).”
Many seasons have come and gone since then. Now when the winter winds blow, I recall the most valuable lesson of my desert experience: When times are tough, the best place to flee is into my Father’s presence. There is nowhere else where I am as safe, and there is no other place which promises resurrection to whatever is distraught or devastated in my soul. Read more of my story.
Join the Conversation
How have you drawn near to God in your own times of winter?
Have you found that winter reshapes you?
Elizabeth de Smaele is a certified spiritual director, raised and trained in Canada but living in The Netherlands. The founder of Deeper Devotion Ministry, Elizabeth specializes in individual spiritual direction and interactive workshops in contemplative spirituality. Her newest initiative is Getaway with God weekends, guided retreats for women.
|
