Winter in New England is idyllic. The world I live in is reminiscent of L.L.Bean magazines and Robert Frost poems. November enters quietly with early morning frosts and snow flurries. December settles in comfortably with a white blanket on the cold earth, usually just in time for Christmas. January’s piercing blue skies make our northern snow globe sparkle. It’s pure magic.

But then February and March show up, and everyone is done with the snow turning brown on the corners of the road. The charm has worn off — we are tired of shoveling. Winter outstays its welcome . . . and we get antsy for warmer weather.

Almost six years ago, a white blanket of winter settled over my life. A chronic illness I’d battled for years avalanched into symptoms worse than I’d dreamed — and I was buried. I found myself shoveling an insurmountable world of snow, with nowhere to put it and no end in sight. As I looked around at my new reality, iced in by limitations that took away life as I knew it, I felt the pain. But I also felt the Holy Spirit near to me, a “very present help in trouble.”

Suffering is never idyllic, but the snow in that season of life still sparkled. God showed me how he flipped my suffering and used it for good. He used it in my friends’ lives as they watched my world crumble and wondered where my hope was. The spiritual conversations with classmates — and even strangers — were new and exciting as I pointed to Christ’s beautiful gospel. God sanctified me, pulling out sin tendencies and idols that we needed to burn.

He softened and sharpened me. He proved to me over and over that He could be trusted. He used my suffering to change my career path, inviting me into a ministry that fit the contours of my heart better than any of my prior plans. I was snowed in, but I could see the beauty of the storm. It held its magic. That was my November, December, and January . . . but it’s been five and a half years.

“God has taught me so much,” I told my pastor. “But I’m ready to move on.”

I want to drive long distances with ease again, have full days without resting, and be able to start a family. There are dreams unfulfilled that I’m reaching out for. I’m longing for warmer weather, normalcy, and healing. I am in March, shoveling dirty snow, and I just want to put down the shovel.

Perhaps you are in a season where suffering clings close, falling thick and fast like flurrying flakes. Perhaps you’ve been caught in an avalanche or ice storm. Are you in your November, just beginning to feel the earth harden? Are you in your December or January, shivering in the sea of snow but still seeing the sparkle? Or, like me, are you in the months that you expected to be spring, cursing the muddy snow that mucks up your life?

If you are longing for summer’s sun to melt the suffering of life, I see you. God sees you. And from one suffering saint to another, here is what I know right now:

I know that God mourns with me and catches my tears in a bottle.

I know that His comfort will carry me through even though I walk through the valley.

I know that God redeems suffering, and that all things work together for good for those who love Him. And . . . I also know that “my good” may not look like healing on this side of heaven. Even still, my greatest good is to be with God — and if my suffering pulls me closer to Him, then hallelujah anyway.

I know that nothing — absolutely nothing — will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

I know that God is the author of my story, and I fully trust Him with the pen because the beauty, depth, honor, and purity of the work He produces is so beyond what I could ever write for myself.

I know that I will one day be healed, and that God will wipe away every tear and death shall be no more.

Dear suffering saint, God is with you in the storm, keeping you safe and warm through all your seasons. He is, indeed, a “very present help in trouble.” When we throw down our shovels in despair, He looks us in the eyes with all the tenderness of a loving Father and picks it up Himself. It was never ours to carry anyway. . .

Join me in giving the shovel to God. You can rest in His strong arms; you can trust Him with your life.

Even in the winter, the warmth of His care is warmer than any summer day.

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