Winter Reflections on HOPE
Hello friends,
This morning, the snow is falling the way grace sometimes comes - quietly, without asking permission, laying a soft white hush over everything it touches. I stood at the window for a long while, watching it drift down in slow spirals, as if heaven were exhaling. As if the world were being invited into a gentler rhythm.
There’s something about a snowfall that feels like a benediction - tender, unhurried, almost shy. And it reminds me of how Jesus came to us: not in thunder or brilliance, but in swaddling clothes and lamplight, hidden in a manger that most of the world would never see. God arriving in humility, choosing softness over spectacle.
Audrey Assad sings, “You came like a winter snow - quiet and soft and slow.”
Those words keep finding me today.
Maybe they’re finding me because this week - the week of our communal reflection on Hope - hasn’t gone as planned. I’ve been working toward offering you a new space of Soul Hospitality, a fresh Advent devotional experience, something that felt meaningful and timely. And then...delays. Glitches. Technology reminding me that I am not in control, no matter how tightly I hold my plans.
I confess, I've been wallowing in the frustration of it - the ache of wanting to give something good, and the sting of watching it stall. But as I watched the snow settling on branches this morning, layering the world in white, something in me softened too. I sensed God whispering the same quiet invitation He offered that first Christmas:
Slow down. Trust Me. Hope is not fragile. Hope is not late.
Hope, after all, has never been about our timing. Hope is about God’s presence in the waiting. Hope is what steadies us when progress feels hidden beneath the surface, the way bulbs rest unseen beneath winter soil, already preparing for spring. Hope is the quiet knowing that God is working even when nothing seems to move.
Maybe this slower unfolding - this pause I didn’t choose - is its own kind of grace. Maybe it’s God letting me be reminded that the gifts He gives are never rushed, and the work He does in us is often formed in the unseen places.
So today, as the snow continues to fall, I’m choosing to rest in that. To let HOPE settle on me the way winter settles on the world - gently, slowly, and with purpose. And I want to invite you into that same stillness.
Wherever this email finds you - in joy or weariness, in chaos or calm - may you feel the quiet nearness of Jesus. May you remember that Hope has a heartbeat and a name: Emmanuel. God with us. Not far off. Not delayed. Here.
May this week of Advent draw you into wonder. May HOPE rise in you like light in a dark room. And may something simple - a snowfall, a candle flame, a prayerful song - remind you again of the miracle that changed everything.
"Let every heart, prepare Him room, and heaven and nature sing..."
With HOPE,
Cat
