Winter’s Work: Pruning, Rest, and the Joy That Lingers

GEORGIA FOLK AND FARM LIFE - Just because Christmas is over doesn’t mean the joy of having the Lord with us fades. Still, I’ll admit—this time of year can feel a little heavy when everything returns to normal. The lights come down, the calendar fills back up, and the world seems to hurry on as if nothing remarkable just happened.

But I’ve come to really love this brief season between Christmas and Easter.

This time of year, the land opens up and reveals its secrets. With the trees and bushes bare, you can finally see what needs pruning and tending. What felt hidden or overwhelming in summer suddenly becomes obvious. Those briars don’t seem nearly as daunting when you can see them clearly—and when the Bush Hog is sitting nearby, ready for work.

Some of the forecast models are hinting at a wintry mix later this week, and it carried my mind back to this time last year, when several inches of snow fell and stayed for days. Everything slowed. The land rested. Familiar places looked different—quieter, more honest. It was a wonderful reminder of how beautiful winter can be when it’s allowed to linger.

Around here, the kids were let out of school, and store-bought sleds and makeshift ones too were zooming down the hills around the farm before the sun was even up. For a few days, we all rediscovered the joy of playing—something folks in Georgia don’t get to do very often in the snow, at least not around home. Laughter carried across frozen fields, and responsibilities waited their turn. That kind of joy doesn’t just belong to children.

I suppose that’s how it should be with us this time of year.

Winter creates a different rhythm. The days are shorter, the evenings longer, and we find ourselves gathered a little closer to home. There’s something about winter that speaks through the senses—the smell of wood smoke hanging in the cold air, the warmth of a house after coming in from outside, baked apples and cinnamon turnovers fresh from the oven, filling the kitchen and pulling everyone just a little closer together. These small comforts feel like quiet reminders that we’re meant to be present, not rushed.

For me, this season has always been about restful pruning. A time for winter projects—finishing up a seed room, tackling small repairs, planning the garden before anything is planted. Our projects are going well this year, but winter has a way of reminding me that productivity isn’t the point. This season asks us to slow down, to tend what needs tending, and to cut back what no longer serves us.

That applies to more than just the land.

Winter is a good season to prune our interior lives as well—the habits we want to improve, the persistent sin or quiet nagging that pulls us away from our true calling or vocation. What stays hidden during busier seasons becomes easier to see when life slows down. Winter doesn’t demand answers right away; it simply invites honesty.

This winter, I’ve been working on simplifying things. I recently read The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry, which I highly recommend. One of the ideas that’s stayed with me most is the practice of setting aside one full day each week to rest—to truly rest. For us, that day is Sunday, but it could be any day. The point isn’t the calendar; it’s the intention. A day to stop striving, to be present, to worship, and to let your body and soul catch up with one another.

I’ve been trying to adopt that rhythm in my own life, and it’s been a really wonderful experience. Slowing down, even just one day a week, has a way of revealing what actually matters—and what doesn’t. Winter gently insists on something else too: don’t forget to take care of yourself. Prune what needs pruning. Rest where rest is needed. And play a little when the opportunity shows up.

I love that about winter. It has a way of grabbing our heads and faces like the hands of a loving mother and saying, slow down and look at how wonderful this day is… now go play.

The weather’s been kind lately, and who knows—we might even get a dusting of snow. If we do, I hope we let it interrupt us just enough to remember that the joy of Emmanuel doesn’t end with Christmas. It lingers—warm as a fire—long into the winter.

~Matt