It feels like an eternity since my family put our garden to sleep. In reality, it’s been just a few months. In the summer, it’s eden green, flowering with brilliant color and sprawling like the untamed wild. Rows of beans lead towards propped-up heirloom tomatoes. Towering stalks of corn point to pink, ripening peaches. It’s a summertime paradise that feeds our family and friends. It keeps our hearts feeling full.

But every year, harvest is inevitable. The tomato leaves wither, and corn stalks harden and fall off. Winter always comes. A day or two after Halloween, I will bury a few dozen garlic cloves to hibernate under hardened earth, gather the remaining earthen scraps, and we will call the garden closed. Putting it to sleep is the kind way to say it, but putting it to death is the cold, hard truth.

If you live in proximity to the 49th parallel like I do, it’s been a long winter. Skiing and skating are brief distractions from the cold reality of the season. Only a sliver of light peeks through this wintertime darkness. The limited access to light exaggerates our sadness and tempts us to ask questions like, “Will the sun ever rise again?” 

This experience is not only true for those of us who are desperate to thaw out in the northern hemisphere. This human experience is seasonal, cycling from harvest to drought. Wintering feels a lot like dying. There is no condition to grow. The question begs of us: What hope do we have when the sun doesn’t shine? 

My favorite poem, “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” ends with these two words: “practice resurrection.” Wendell Berry, the author, is a renowned poet-farmer, and although I don’t pretend to be proficient at either of those things, those two familiar words, practice resurrection, in that unfamiliar order, have faithfully guided me through every season. Following Jesus means embarking on a journey to a cross. In all of our many efforts to escape this dying, God will always lead us there. 

Why does the winter come so soon? We ask God why this season feels like dying. We look for the evidence of new life in friendships, family, and our souls.

The truth is found in the garden. The Creator of both the cosmos and the clove of garlic intrinsically knows that nothing can have new life until it first dies. A seed must be buried to grow. 

This is the good news of the resurrection. Jesus submitted to death, was buried like a seed, and rose from the grave to make a way for all of His children to experience new life, and life everlasting. 

Creation mirrors this very story. The decaying leaves in our backyard garden have overwintered to become food for this year’s soil. The rotting tomatoes that were swallowed by the earth will soon sprout when the sun shines on the hidden seeds. The garlic is stirring underneath the frozen ground. Spring will come again, as it always does, and new life will come from things that we thought were dead.

This is the practice of resurrection — to not cower from winter or run away from death, but to pick up our cross and follow Jesus, dying to ourselves and rising with Him (Matthew 16:24-26). The journey with Jesus is a daily discipline. He is faithful and leads us into everlasting life.

Spring is here. March rolls over, and April’s showers will bring May’s flowers. Our vegetable plants are already sprouting by the southside window that sits near my desk. Seeds from last year’s harvest that have been patiently staging in the basement cellar have been sown, watered, and will continue growing in a controlled condition. Before we know it, our hands and hearts will be busy in the soil. We will be gardening with God soon once again.

But don’t just let me wax poetic about gardening to you. Go ahead and get your hands a little dirty. Buy a countertop tomato plant and learn how to prune. If you’re eager, dig out a small plot in your backyard and start working the soil. Snag a Venus flytrap and set it on your desk. 

Practice resurrection, friends. For in your dying, you will find what it means to be truly alive.