It’s a gray day here in Madison, Wis.

There is snow on the ground. It’s gray, too. It’s cold and gray, and it’s been that way for most of the winter. It’s bringing me down.

I have friends who love this weather. They say it’s invigorating. They cross-country ski and go ice skating and play hockey. Not everyone experiences Wisconsin winters the way I do.

In fact, it’s not entirely the weather’s fault that I’m down. I have struggled with depression for as long as I can remember.

Over the years, I’ve learned how to manage it so that it doesn’t sweep me off my feet. While it never goes away completely, it doesn’t prevent me from being a pretty good father, husband and pastor.

Still, these long, cold, gray days are tough. They wear on me.

They make me want to take naps and watch movies and eat cookies and hibernate. Too many cold gray days in a row and I start worrying that depression is getting the upper hand. This winter can’t end soon enough. It’s been a dreary season.

By the time you read this, we will be a few weeks into Lent. We’ll be on that long, slow walk to Jerusalem and all the terrible things that await us there. We will follow the disciples as they listen to Jesus speak of his death. We will share their disbelief and then their sorrow as all that Jesus predicted comes to pass.

It is fitting that we make this journey when the sky is gray and the ground is frozen and the grass is dead and the air is as cold as the grave. During Lent we follow along as Jesus walks toward the cross. In the process we are confronted by our own mortality. Death awaits us all. Lord willing, it is waiting a long way out ahead of us. But death is out there, and sooner or later we’ll enter its cold embrace.

The temptation is to be afraid.

To do everything in our power to hold death at bay. That fear can cloud our vision. It can trick us into believing death has ultimate power over us. It can prevent us from seeing beyond the cold and gray of winter. It can convince us that this is how it is and always will be. Fear of death narrows our vision until all we can see is the cross looming before us. We lose sight of the empty tomb.

The apostle Paul once said that if the resurrection of Jesus is a lie, then we Christians are to be pitied as the most hopeless people on earth (1 Corinthians 15: 16-19). If Christ was not raised, then death is the end of everything. Death has the last word, and we are a people without hope.
In this bleak midwinter, I can easily imagine a world without hope. I can imagine a winter that never ends, a spring that never comes, a world forever cold and gray. I can imagine a world in which death holds sway.

But then, and for just a moment, the sun comes out.

It climbs the sky, rising up from the horizon. Gray snow becomes silver so bright it makes my eyes hurt. There is a hint of warmth amid the cold air. The sun comes up and with it hope for the coming of spring.

The sun rises, and I think of my family and the love we share. I think of my congregation and the warm, safe and welcoming place they make for me. I think of all the good things God has given me. I feel my spirit lifting, resisting depression’s downward pull. I catch a glimpse of hope. It is enough.

The sun hides again. It is cold and gray outside.

We are still on that Lenten journey.

But we have seen the light. Even if only for a moment, hope broke through. And we remember. Beyond the cross there is an empty tomb. Death’s power is broken. Christ is risen. Hope is alive. And the last word spoken comes from the mouth of God. Hallelujah.

This ran as a Grace & Truth column in the March issue.