Hope Beneath The Frozen Ground

Winter came for most of us these past couple of weeks.  Even here in Central Texas, the ground froze, sleet fell, and everything was covered in ice.  

And amid this frozenness, we have seen so much violence and unrest on the Midwest's frozen streets, fear gripping us all like an icy hand rising from the ground.  And we wonder if the sun is ever going to come out again, to shed light and warmth on our souls.  

The snow and ice and snow here in Texas have all but melted, but the feeling still remains for many of us.  Things aren't as they ought to be in the world around us, and we are left wondering what to do. 

There are seasons when it feels as though darkness has the upper hand. The headlines are heavy. The stories of violence, injustice, and cruelty seem endless. We may find ourselves whispering a painful question: Is goodness still strong enough? Is hope still reasonable?

Vincent van Gogh once named this tension with striking honesty:

“Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious, to believe that the world could still change for the better. And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold that one is tempted to say, ‘What do I care if there is a summer; its warmth is no help to me now.’ Yes, evil often seems to surpass good. But then, in spite of us, and without our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts. One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.”

Van Gogh reminds us that hope is not denial. Hope does not pretend winter isn’t cold. It does not minimize pain or explain away suffering. Hope simply refuses to believe that winter gets the final word.

Scripture echoes this same stubborn confidence. The psalmist declares, “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Notice that joy does not cancel the night; it follows it. The apostle Paul writes, “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:21). Not because evil is weak, but because goodness—rooted in God—is stronger.

When Jesus stood in the shadow of the cross, the darkness looked absolute. Yet resurrection was already on its way. The light was not extinguished; it was hidden, gathering strength. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5).

Hope, then, is not naive optimism. It is courageous trust. It is choosing to believe that God is still at work beneath the frozen surface. It is planting seeds even when the ground looks barren. It is loving when hate seems louder. It is praying when answers feel distant.

You may not feel summer today. You may still be shivering in winter’s grip. But God’s promise stands: the thaw will come. The wind will turn. Life will push through what looked dead.

So hold on to hope, even with trembling hands. Hold on not because times are easy, but because God is faithful. And faithfulness, in the end, always outlasts the frost.

Prayer
God of light and life, when the darkness feels overwhelming, anchor us in your promises. Help us trust that you are still working, still healing, still bringing new life. Give us courage to hope, even when we are weary. Amen.

Reflection Questions

1. Where do you most feel the weight of darkness or discouragement right now?

2. What small signs of “thaw” or goodness have you noticed, even in difficult seasons?

3. What might it look like for you to practice hope in a tangible way this week?