There’s a small cemetery not far from where I grew up that always seems to call to me when the air turns cold.

It sits on a hill — quiet, dignified, half-forgotten — with moss climbing its stone columns and ancient oaks twisting above the markers like sentinels. When it snows, the world there goes still in a way that makes even your heartbeat ring out.

I don’t go for sadness. I go for perspective.

I go to feel the The Sleep Between Seasons…

There’s something about those plots under a white blanket that humbles me — reminds me that the noise of our daily worries is temporary. The frozen hush feels like a sermon whispered through the trees: Be still. Everything is growing, even now.

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The Ghost Season

December has always carried its ghosts.
They show up in the flicker of candlelight, the echo of carols, the empty chair at the table. We dress the world in color and light…does this keep them company while also reminding ourselves that we’re still among the living?

I’ve always loved the stories that live in this strange in-between: It’s a Wonderful Life, A Christmas Carol, all those tales where a soul is shaken awake by the realization that life — is precious, numbered, and a true miracle.

They’re not horror stories; they’re resurrection stories.
Each one says, in its own way: You’re not too far gone to change.

I think that’s why the quiet corners of winter move me so deeply. They carry both the chill of endings and the hush of new beginnings. It’s the season that lets us meet our own ghosts — not to fear them, but to listen.

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The Cemetery in Snow

Today, as I passed that little cemetery hill, everything looked soft and untouched. The balustrade glowed beneath the snow, and the stone column — weathered and noble — wore its moss like a crown. The wrought gate swung open in invitation. Even the trees seemed to whisper, the dark bark twisting like scripture written in a language only time understands.

There was a stillness so complete.

And I realized something: this doesn’t feel like death at all.

It feels like waiting.
Like the world holding its breath for a cue only Heaven knows.

It’s a kind of divine pause — what nature does between exhale and inhale, the space between dying back and rising again.

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Dormancy Isn’t Death

We forget that dormancy is not defeat.
It’s renewal in disguise.

The bare branches that look so lost right now aren’t gone — they’re storing energy. The bulbs under the soil are doing sacred work in secret. The birds that disappeared haven’t vanished; they’ve gone where warmth still lingers.

We call it “the dead of winter,” but maybe it’s really the gestation of spring.

That truth has comforted me more than once in my own quiet seasons — the ones where I thought everything was over: my courage, my life, my light. Looking back, those were the winters of my soul.

The years when nothing seemed to grow were the ones quietly preparing me for a different kind of bloom.

I just couldn’t see it yet.

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Lessons from the Cold

Maybe that’s why I’ve come to love winter — not for only its festivities, but for its honesty.

It strips away pretense. You can’t fake warmth when the world is frozen. You either build the fire or shiver.

In the same way, the cold seasons of our lives ask us to stop pretending.
To let go of what no longer holds heat.
To stop performing and start listening.

There’s a certain mercy in that kind of clarity.

When everything slows down, when the noise quiets and the surface beauty fades, you start hearing your own soul again.

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Scrooge, George Bailey, and the Ghost of What Could Still Be

Beneath those witness trees, I thought about Ebenezer Scrooge standing in front of his own gravestone — that terrible, yet redemptive moment when he realizes it’s not too late to change.

He’s not punished for his past; he’s transformed by his awakening.

And George Bailey, on that bridge, learning through his angel guide what the world would look like without him — both men are visited by an essence that doesn’t drag them into terror, but instead into truth.

A visitation. A divine interruption. A reminder that even the darkest night can be rewritten if you’re willing to open your eyes.

Those stories endure because they echo something ancient: that redemption isn’t reserved for saints. It’s offered to anyone willing to believe and accept the grace of our everlasting Savior.

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The Art of Wintering

Lately, I’ve been learning the art of wintering — not just enduring hard times, but journeying through them with gentleness.

It’s about trusting that the frozen fields are still fertile, even when they look barren.

Wintering, in its truest sense, is surrender.

It’s saying, I don’t have to bloom right now. I just have to rest, to root, to be.

That’s a lesson I resisted for years. I was always in motion, always building, performing, achieving — terrified that stillness meant failure.

But the older I get, the more I see that success and serenity are siblings. They can’t exist without the other.

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The Coming Spring

Every year, without fail, the thaw comes.
The light stretches a little further across the horizon, and suddenly the world starts to hum again.

When the snow finally melts in that cemetery, the ground breathes, and the air smells faintly of rain and resurrection.

That’s how I imagine our own resurrections, too — not a dramatic event, but a slow, steady warming of the heart.

When the spring of our lives return, everything that looked lifeless reveals it was simply resting.

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A FINAL NOTE

So, if this season feels heavy — if you’re standing in the cold wondering if anything will ever bloom again — maybe take a quiet walk somewhere sacred to you.

Listen to the hush.

Notice what’s still standing.

And remember: you’re not frozen, you’re gathering strength.

Dormancy is the soul’s way of preparing for beauty.

Rest isn’t weakness; it’s readiness.

Some chapters are meant to simmer under snow until the world is ready to thaw them.

And when they finally do, what rises is truer, deeper, more meaningful — not brand new, but newly alive.

Because even in the quietest, coldest corners of winter, spring is already preparing for its way back.

So here’s to the ghosts that remind us it’s not too late, and to the roots already dreaming beneath the snow. Maybe that’s the real miracle of the season — not the glitter, not the gifts, but this gentle truth…

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It’s not too late. You’re not too far gone. This isn’t the end.
It’s only the sleep between seasons.

If you’re in a quiet season, don’t rush it. Dormancy isn’t the end — it’s the breath before the bloom