I feel the quiet coming, and though it creeps slowly, it is sure. This peace that passes understanding. I crave it deep inside my bones, the winter and the fire and the promise of what is new coming to life again. The earth is not worried. Not my will, but Yours, Lord.
When I think about the bare nakedness of winter, the idea that I could just breathe in peace is overwhelming. I have trouble sitting still, and I tend to rush to fill the gaps of silence, but this is what the Father gives. He is much like the quiet, wandering unobtrusively through the candlelit rooms of my heart, settling at the table. The winter reminds me that things can be made new again. Grace is what lies within the tension of what is taken.
Not my will, but Yours.