How to Love Winter When It's -11 Degrees Outside

for everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven

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As I’ve previously mentioned, I’m a pretty big New-Year’s-goals kind of gal. One of the things I really wanted to work on this year was loving winter, which doesn’t come naturally to me. I live in Wisconsin, where frigid temperatures and snow tires are an every day thing, and I’m used to spending a solid three-fifths of the year kvetching about the weather.

But it gets obnoxious, to feel constantly annoyed at the great outdoors. I live here, and I’m going to live here, and part of living here means being cold. After reading a lot about how important it is to get outside daily for both kids and adults¹, I became determined to make that a reality in our home.

In December, I saw a rush of cozy, winter-time admiring online and among friends. Everyone talked about the beauty of slowing down; everyone spoke eagerly of hibernating + hygge. But it’s kind of easy to love winter when the temperatures have just mildly dipped. We had a record warm December. It isn’t hard to find the beauty in twinkling Christmas lights and Santa Claus letters. Winter in December just makes sense—it’s easy to lean into and appreciate. It’s still novel and sparkling and new. We’re still excited about our crock pots. We’re still remembering how hot we were in August and admiring our new sweaters.

But I knew the hard part was still coming.

December isn’t even really winter. The first day of winter isn’t until Thomasmas on December 21. That means the vast majority of the time we’re actually appreciating the slowing of the seasons, it’s still autumn. And while many of us are already beginning to feel sick of winter, the truth is that it’s only just begun. Winter will stick its muddy boots into us until mid freaking March. St. Patrick’s Day? Technically in the winter!

There’s a novelty to winter that’s run out by the time we’re just getting started.

So this year, I’ve decided to lean into winter instead of avoiding it at all costs. We sprung for pricey winter gear for our kids; if we line their boots with wool and ensure their snow pants properly fit, they’re much more likely to enjoy playing outside. I bought Sorel boots and Darn Tough socks for myself, and I splurged on an Eddie Bauer winter coat that feels like wearing a gigantic blanket.

To survive the winter is entirely possible. I’d say I’m doing all right at that. But to love it is entirely different.

(You see where this metaphor is happily trouncing, right?)

I still don’t love the winter. I step outside and it feels like a wall of ice is slapping me in the face. My poor minivan gets completely disgusting, although praise for those new tires we splurged on in the autumn. There are salt stains on our mudroom floor and almost every day I’m howling like a banshee at a child who’s forgotten a hat or glove or boot (How?! How did you even walk to the bus in your sneakers?) at school. There’s a difference between surviving and thriving, and friends, we are barely surviving with grimaces in tact.

In fact, I’m finding myself in the same place as every year prior—tiptoeing into spring far before it’s time. Every year in Wisconsin, sometime around early March, we have what midwesterners will recognize as Fake Spring: that one kinda-sorta-warmish week where we wear Sperry’s and consider pulling out our porch furniture. Then the temperatures plummet, the snow falls, and we shake our fists at the sky, when we’re the ones who were trying to rush through seasons before they were truly over.

For everything there is a season. But do we have to find a way to love every single one?

“Mother Teresa,” my spiritual director reminded me a couple of months ago, “was grateful for her cross.”

“Mother Teresa,” I retorted, saying the name of the woman I literally named a child after with as much disdain as I could muster, “was a sociopath.”

This season of life has me thinking a lot about crosses—about why we have the ones we have, and how to handle them gracefully, or who to turn to when we feel we’re all out of grace. Who can we file a complaint to about the yoke not being easy and the burden not being light? Can I speak to the manager, please?

This was truly what I’d begun to think—or maybe, when I was completely honest with myself, what I’d actually always thought. It’s easy to say that everyone has a cross when yours weighs about two pounds—about as hard as enjoying a snowfall in December. The idea that you could (and should) only love God’s will in simple, easy times had sunk into my bone marrow and made total sense. To love Jesus? Sure. But to love his death? And so too, our own? To love the cross is bizarre, macabre, wrong. To love the cross is something that masochistic, privileged church-weirdos would tell you to do. To love the cross is impossible, unless you are, of course, Mother Teresa. Impossible for us normal people.

But as CS Lewis said: “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.”

I don’t love the cross. But I now at least believe that I should, and I believe it’s possible.

I can either see the cross as a stumbling block on the way to how my life should be (the way I designed it, of course), or see it as an opportunity. An invitation from Jesus to grow in faith and virtue and love. And I believe it’s possible to bear the full brunt of real human emotion—pain, anguish, terror, regret, sorrow—while also loving the will of God and understanding that you’re knee deep in it at this very moment. You can hate sin and death, and love the invitation from Jesus to use it in order to grow.

Jesus can use anything as an invitation, including—and especially—your suffering. He did not cause it. It’s not a test. But he is willing it, and he can choose to use it.

“Each day, every day of our lives, God presents to us the people and opportunities upon which he expects us to act. He expects no more of us, but he will accept nothing less of us; and we fail in our promise and commitment if we do not see in the situations of every moment of every day his divine will.” - Fr. Walter Ciszek

If you’re in a winter season of your faith—the kind that is a lot colder and darker than Pinterest-perfect crock pot recipes would have you believe—it is possible to love it. In fact, it’s very similar to attempting to love the winter. All of the same tips; all of the same habits. The way God has modeled seasonal living after himself never ceases to astound me.

Eat your fruit: If you, like me, have littles underfoot, you’ve already been sick 19 times this winter. Eating fruits and vegetables boosts your immune system and keeps your body’s natural defenses as healthy as possible. Keeping up with the sacraments, even when you’d rather be stuffing your face with tortilla chips and binging Abbott Elementary, strengthens you with grace for when the difficulties seem unbearable. Going to Mass and having a prayer routine are long-term investments in your spiritual health. They can feel monotonous and dull compared to the sugary temptation of a lazy Sunday morning, but they’re boosting your body for the battles it needs to face.

Work with, instead of against, the rhythms of the earth: A lot of times we feel shame about hibernating, but sometimes in hard seasons, curling up like an introverted weirdo is what feels right. Back in the day, people used the early darkness as a sign to just…go to bed earlier. In winter, or in a wintering faith, getting quiet and reflective might be the best way to hear the voice of God speaking to you. It might not be the time for every bible study, substack, or mission trip under the sun.

Seasonal reading: During the winter months, I love reading books that take place in cold climates. Island romcoms just make me long for what I very much don’t have. So just like you might enjoy an armchair trip to Narnia or Antarctica this time of year, dive into Job, the psalms², and the Gospels. There’s a season for Exodus and Maccabees and Jude and Genesis and it’s all worth your time, but it’s those three chunks of the bible—Job, psalms, Gospels—that really speak to me in seasons of pain.

Get medicinal and take your vitamin D: Sometimes, you need modern medicine and professional wisdom. It can be very hard to decipher a difficult spiritual season and a bout of depression—seek counseling if you’re able, and don’t be afraid of prescribed anti-depressants, no matter how many shady Christian YouTubers try to persuade you otherwise. Reveling in pain and suffering is not healthy, and is not the same as finding love and gratitude for it. This likely requires professional and pastoral care to sort through.

Seek the light: Just like how we’re told to get as much sunlight in winter as possible, we should always seek the light. We are not reading the Bible + praying + singing praise and worship to gratify our own souls, or to increase our endorphins, or even to bring peace + joy to those around us. We’re doing it because of Jesus. He is the light we seek. And he can be found in the darkest places; he dwells in the dustiest corners.

Your thunder was heard in the whirlwind,
    your lightning lit up the world;
    the earth trembled and quaked.
Your path led through the sea,
    your way through the mighty waters,
    though your footprints were not seen.

Psalm 77, 18-19

On My Nightstand 

• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott: I’m rereading one of my absolute favorite books this winter, and it holds up. Every time I read this book, I get something new out of it + feel connected with a different character. Talk about a terrific winter read!

• The Silence of the Feminists: This is actually a podcast, but it’s really worthwhile listening. I really struggle with arguments that seem to mostly be “why aren’t people speaking up about this?!” when there are, every day, a million and one things to speak up about and I don’t think people should feel pressured to virtue-signal. But it is incredibly striking to me how many people have just openly denied the usage of rape as a weapon of war by Hamas.

• The Renaissance of Wonder by Marion Lochhead: An interesting book on the “golden years” of fantasy children’s literature, from George MacDonald to CS Lewis.

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In case you missed these Letters:

• Patron Saint of Hot Messes - for subscribers

• According to Thy Word - for subscribers

• What a Tradwife Influencer Taught Me - for everyone

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1. I really enjoy the book There’s No Such Thing as Bad Weather by Linda Åkeson McGurk.

2. The psalms aren’t just songs of praise—they’re also weary songs of lament that can pierce your heart. I’m working on memorizing psalm 77 this year.