A Winter for My Soul

*Photo by K8 via Unsplash

2009 

About one mile in, the bike beneath me felt heavy. Each push down on the pedal felt like I had the resistance turned all the way up to imitate climbing a hill, but the trail in front of me was paved and flat.

I grimaced and pushed down again, feeling like I was biking through mud. Finally, a little over halfway to the brewery for our Saturday afternoon date, I yelled to Brett, “Stop! I need a rest.”

“Sure!” he said. No questions asked and no judgement in his voice. My pride found it ridiculous that I would need a rest just a few miles into a leisurely Saturday bike ride. This was not a difficult trail, but my heart was pounding and streams of sweat made tracks down my face.

After catching my breath for a couple minutes, we started again. The rest didn’t help at all. 

Once we finally arrived at the brewery, Brett looked refreshed and ready to enjoy a cold beer before turning around and biking the 13 miles back home. I looked like I had climbed a mountain on a tricycle. 

After sitting down at the table I caught my breath and took a sip of beer. Then I explained to Brett what I had been thinking for the second half of the torture ride. 

“The way I see it, we have three options. One, you ride back home and get the car while I order another beer and you can come pick me up. Two, we call a friend with a bike rack and ask if they can come pick both of us up. Three, we throw this bike away and walk home. But no matter what, I am not putting my butt back in that seat.”

“I hear you. Why don’t we take our time here and make that decision in an hour?” He knows me well. And he knows that even though I was miserable, I don’t like giving up and I would in fact be putting my butt back in that bike saddle after our beer. 

The ride home was just as miserable, but I knew it would be over soon so I powered through. Every push down on the pedal meant we were closer to being home, so I didn’t stop. I didn’t talk. I just put my head down and muscled my way home. 

The bike somehow survived my wrath – probably because I was too tired to throw it down the final hill we had to climb back to our neighborhood – and was once again delegated to the back corner of our garage. 

One Saturday afternoon a few weeks after the incident I was inside, likely still icing my sore legs, when Brett came in the house after working in the garage. 

“So, um, I was just filling the tires on the bikes and I noticed that part of the brake was stuck on the back wheel of your bike. It was probably rubbing against the tire the whole ride out to Red Hook.”

I don’t remember what I said at that moment. Maybe I just stared back, maybe a laugh escaped my lips, maybe I said something snarky. What I do remember is the odd mix of vindication, embarrassment, anger, and relief I felt.  

The brake made it hard, but if I had just checked the bike before we left I would have known that I was making it harder than it needed to be. I should have slowed down, stopped moving, and resisted the urge to power through just to prove I could.

***

2017-2018

When I gave birth to Conor, my heart was still heavy with grief for the baby we lost just a few months before his body started being knit together in my womb. I had grieved the miscarriage but I never did figure out how to fall in love with one child while missing the opportunity to fall in love with another. Having Conor home felt like coasting most days, but then I would turn a blind corner and be met with a steep hill of grief. I gripped my love for my children tightly and put my head down, powering up that hill with everything in me. I did not look around to ask for help from anyone who had navigated the hill before me.

Conor did not sleep more than three hours for ten months. At seven weeks old he spiked a fever that resulted in a trip to the emergency room, a lumbar puncture, and 48 hours in the hospital. Of course this all happened while Brett was at a conference in California and Norah was still clinging to the glory days when we were just a family of three. She reminded me frequently that she was sad and angry that Conor was getting more attention than her. She was right of course. Newborns take a lot of time and energy and I had very little left over for her. I went to bed with tears in my eyes most nights, praying for wisdom to show both of my kids how my love for them split my heart wide open. Pedal harder. Push down. You got this. 

I could not let other people see my weakness or lack of ability though. So as soon as the meals stopped being delivered to our home, Brett and I continued to lead our community group and cook dinner for 20 people every Wednesday. I took on their prayer requests and outsourced my own. I started leading a monthly women’s event at our church and while I knew I needed to ask for help, I was too overwhelmed to even assess which areas I needed the most help with. It seemed easier to just power through and do it all myself. So I did. I hitched a trailer to the back of my bike and filled it with all the tasks of curating a monthly event. Do not stop. Push harder. Prove yourself worthy.

When Conor was nine months old we scheduled the date for a routine surgery he would need before he turned one. I knew he would be fine, but there is nothing routine about holding your small child’s body down on an operating table, telling him everything is going to be okay while he screams and strangers with masks give him anesthesia that makes his tiny body go limp. I refused to let tears come in the waiting room. I honestly don’t even know if I prayed. I let very few people know about this surgery because we could handle it. I’ll be the helper when others need it, but I didn’t want to admit that we might need help and prayer too. Put your head down. You can do this. Keep going.

As Conor recovered from surgery, I felt like I could finally slow down and rest after this exhausting transition to being the mom of two. I was yelling to God nightly, “Stop! I need a rest!” I did not realize I was only halfway through this long ride.

Just as we were starting to see some time to come up for air, we received a phone call on Brett’s birthday. His beloved grandfather had passed away that morning. I hopped right back on that proverbial bike and kept riding, managing schedules to get home for the funeral and figuring out how to grieve with family from across the country. Brett grieves differently than I do, and since this was his grandfather, I felt like I needed to match his grief -- a bit more stoic and introspective than my more visible and emotional processing. He takes hills slow and steady on a bike too.

In the months following his death, we had some sweet family memories. I had opportunities to pause and rest, to stop powering through. But I didn’t. We scheduled trips, moved apartments, poured out more of ourselves. I ramped up ideas for the women’s event I was still leading and mapped out how to finally ask for help, although certainly not enough. Pedal harder, push harder, do not stop, power through. 

In July Brett’s grandma passed away after a battle with breast cancer. I cannot emphasize enough that at 87, Grandma Kay died young. She had more life to live, more energy to burn, and more exploring to do. A few months before she died, I wrote Kay a letter telling her why we gave Norah her middle name, Katharine. At her funeral, I stood up and read that letter, keeping my emotions in check to power through. Put your head down. Keep going. Don’t stop. 

For two years I refused to get off my proverbial bike. I did not even accept the help of someone going in front of me to provide a draft and lessen the resistance . I pushed down through grief, rode around anxiety, and increased the climb by adding more to my plate, assuming that if I focused on writing talks and curating breakout sessions for other women I could avoid working through the pain in my own life. 

At the end of the summer, I developed bursitis in my elbow. At first it was just annoying, but it would prove to be the brake that finally forced me to lift my head up and see that I could no longer power through in my own strength.

Turns out, not all seasons are for bike riding. 

***

When September finally arrived everyone was sleeping through the night, no surgeries were scheduled, no one was in hospice, no big transitions were on the horizon. All I had was a sore elbow that really felt like no big deal.  I was thrilled to walk Norah back to school and planned to spend Conor’s nap time processing through the past couple years through writing. And by processing, I mean I wanted to spend no longer than one week powering through the emotions with my pen so I could get back to a smoother, more productive life again. I was certain spilling the words on paper would remove the brake from the wheels of my life. 

Two days after school started, my already sore elbow became hot to the touch and started to resemble a small balloon. It was an infection, so I was prescribed antibiotics that “will likely reduce the swelling within a few days and return my elbow to normal in a week”. Instead, I could no longer bend it after two days and it started to turn black. 

“I just called the surgeon. He can fit you in tomorrow to take a look,” Brett said. “I already asked my staff to reschedule my patients in the morning so I’ll stay with you until we figure out what’s going on.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. “I just want this all to be over. I can’t remember what life is like outside of crisis mode.”

The next morning we were sitting in the surgeon’s office waiting to be seen in between patients. After just a few minutes, our friend Josh brought me back to look at the black balloon that had replaced my elbow. 

“It’s good to see you guys! Sorry it’s like this, though,” he said. 

He only had to take one glance at my elbow to tell us that I would need surgery. “It’s a short procedure. You’ll be home tonight and feeling better by tomorrow.”

“Sounds good!” I replied. Better tomorrow. Writing tomorrow. Getting through the pain of the last two years tomorrow. Powering through tomorrow. 

I slowly woke up from surgery to find a full arm brace positioning my left elbow at a locked ninety degrees. This might actually be good. It will slow me down and force me to spend a bit more time processing than I had planned, I thought.

Then the infectious disease doctor walked into the recovery room. 

“Well, since those oral antibiotics weren’t really working before surgery, I’m hesitant to put you on them again. I’m going to recommend an IV antibiotic, but you shouldn’t need it more than two weeks.”

A nurse came to our apartment to stick me with a needle in my writing arm. I laid down on our couch with my left arm in custody and buried my face in the pillow while Brett rubbed my leg, telling me everything was going to be okay. The nurse inserted the IV needle into the crux of my right elbow, and with it the final brake on the wheels I needed to power through.

My mom flew in from Montana to help while I had zero working arms to care for our children. Since I was of no use at home anyway, I decided to go to the mom’s group with my dear friends from church a couple days after surgery. I let someone fill a large mug of coffee for me while I sat down in the corner of the small, cozy living room. 

“In the book we’re going through, the author uses the analogy of a tree in different seasons to talk about the work God does at different times in our life,” Marilyn explained. “Spring is a season of new growth. Summer is a season of flourishing. Fall is a season of pruning. And Winter is a season of stillness.”

Here is my description of the seasons: Spring is a season of excitement. Summer is a season of flourishing. Fall is an unnecessary season. Winter sucks. Power through winter. 

“What season do you think you’re in right now?” Marilyn asked the group. 

I knew the answer immediately. I had just spent two years resisting pruning shears. I could see the things that needed to be clipped away, but I was scared at what would be revealed without my shield of control and accomplishment. 

I know the seasons have to go in order. You can’t go straight from fall to spring. The trees need time to rest, to do the deep inner work needed for blooms to regrow. Winter has a purpose, and while I love the beauty of sparkling snow under the biting sun, I hate the idea of stillness and long seasons of rest in my real life. You can’t ride a bike, even a proverbial one, through freshly fallen snow.  I would much prefer a spring/summer/spring/summer rotation. Let’s just grow and flourish, grow and flourish. But that is not the way the seasons work. 

“I think I’m at the very beginning of winter,” I said. Although to look at me with my left arm bent and my right arm straight with an IV line covered by a wrap, it was probably pretty obvious. “I know I need to just let it be, but everything in me wants to push through to spring. To do the work as quickly and painlessly as possible and get back to growing and being productive. I don’t think I’ve ever truly let myself experience a winter for my soul.”

***

Before I could fully enter into a winter season, I knew I had to stop resisting the pruning shears. 

For two weeks I reluctantly accepted help. My self reliance was clipped away. I let friends bring dinner and walk with me, pushing Conor in the stroller to pick Norah up from school. Other people took my place in leadership positions, clipping away the idea that I was the only one capable of doing what I do. Other people can make meals, other people can give a talk at an event, other people can lead a community group, other people can comfort my children. 

Some of the pruning was self inflicted and some was unexpected. Some was permanent and some was to make room for something better. Regardless, it was the most pruning I had gone through in a long time. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so small, so raw, with so many fresh wounds. I also couldn’t remember the last time I carried fewer expectations for myself or felt free to take a slow, deep breath.

After a long two weeks, I had use of both arms again, but I no longer felt the urge to power through. It took forced stillness and accepting help for me to willingly enter into a winter season for my soul. Underneath all that clipping away there was grief to work through. Hard conversations to have. Words to repent of. Pride to lay down.

There is a special covering in winter that isn’t there in the other seasons. The cold makes us wrap our bodies in layers and the snow blankets the earth to hide what has fallen away or died in autumn. Seeds submit to the earth, protected until it is time for them to grow again. 

I learned to like the winter. I think that there are certain seasons when we are meant to share the lessons we learn right away. We are meant to share the stories, the heartbreaks, the victories, and wrestle with the lesson out loud as we learn it. That’s the way I’ve always been.

But sometimes lessons and stories are not meant to be spoken aloud so quickly. Sometimes they are meant to stay hidden and protected until they are ready to come out from under that protective winter covering. Sometimes we need to let the Giver of the lessons hold them for us until we’re ready to truly learn from them. 

When I look back at those couple of years now I can see that the events were not earth shaking. They simply mirrored the up and down road that makes biking worth the ride. It was the unrelenting parade of smaller things that made the road seem more difficult. They crept along just spaced out enough to make me refuse or neglect to ask for help. 

In my head, those two years were packed with grief, exhaustion, uncertainty, and fogginess. In reality, there was a lot of joy there too. We took our kids to Disney World, got the keys to our very own cabin in the woods, deepened friendships, and kept two children alive who take joy seriously.

I couldn’t see all of that because I was too busy keeping my head down to get through the steady incline on my own. 

There were always people around me willing to help, to pray, to listen. I did ask for prayer for the circumstances -- pray for our kids, pray for our family, pray for Brett. Help them. I never asked for prayer for my own heart. 

During that season, all of life felt like riding a bike with a brake stuck against the wheel. I was convinced the resistance was caused by circumstances. But the brake on the wheel was me. I placed it there when I refused to ask for help and I kept it there by wanting to impress people with my own strength and ability. 

***

2019

In August, almost a full year after my surgery,  Brett and I went away for a night to celebrate our 13th anniversary. As we checked in at the gorgeous mountain lodge, the receptionist asked if she could help us plan any activities for the following day. 

“We can point you to a few local hikes, give you fly fishing gear, or you can check out one of our mountain bikes.”

“What do you think, Jod? Do you want to do a bike ride before breakfast tomorrow when it’s still cool outside?”

My throat caught. It was the middle of August but the thought of a bike ride felt like the first bloom of spring. 

“I’d love to,” I said.