The holiday season is once again in full swing, despite the unseasonably warm weather we’ve been having in the south east. Being from Michigan, it strikes me as odd each time I pass a yard filled with holiday lawn décor, decked out with strings of light in every possible direction, without the bright white of snow off of which to cast a glow.

Winter without snow makes me feel a little edgy—like I keep waiting for something that might not come, and even if it does, I have my doubts about its abundance. Because there’s something about snow that isn’t meant to be skimpy. Up north, the flakes fall with a weighted confidence. They are fat and friendly. They stick to the ground and give trees a thick glimmer. They remind you that even the dirtiest landscape has the capacity for beauty with the weather’s grace. Winter is a tough season for me, regardless of where I am. I like the promise of green or the passion of orange leaves. I like abundance. I like fruitfulness. I like extravagance. Instead, winter is a pulling inward of ones resources, warmth, and sustenance.

The disarming nakedness of trees makes me ponder the bare essentials —things like roots that I cannot see, the unique detail of limb structure. Winter is a time to consolidate ones passions, to discover ones roots. In the winter, I need to rest a little more. Winter is the season of waiting, the season of faithful anticipation. In the midst of cold wind on frozen ground, we anticipate the warmth of God’s promise. In the days that become shorter and nights that become longer, we anticipate the light of God’s presence. We wait, we anticipate, we hope, because we need God to come to us again in a new way. We need God’s spirit to descend into our lives again, like intricate, elaborate snow flakes that grace our souls with a new and quiet beauty. We need to be reminded, renewed. And so we wait.

There are many stories we like to tell our children this time of year. Some of us tell of the birth of Jesus, how God emerged into the world through the hard labor of a young woman who gave birth in a stable, because there was no room at the inn. Others speak of the festival of lights, recounting how a tiny pool of oil kept the menorah lit for eight days when Jewish ancestors reclaimed the temple from an oppressive empire. We talk of solstice—the inward movement of the spirit as the days shorten and the nights grow long; and also of Kwanzaa, a celebration of bounty, blessing, and beauty rooted in the harvest celebrations of Africa. And of course, who can forget the tale of ole Saint Nick?

In the midst of the cold of the season and the stories of our faith, there is a ritual in which we all take part—the lighting of candles. Whether their lights represent Advent, Hanukkah, solstice, or Kwanzaa, a bright candle ignites our hope for a peaceful world that casts out oppression and violence. A burning candle this time of year kindles the warmth shared by families, communities, and all of humanity in the midst of an icy season. A lighted candle represents our common hope for peace, and our collective wait for the birth of a better world. Our wait is not passive. Like a mother’s body readying itself for birth, the wait requires incredible care, deliberate choices, and the enduring patience of hope.

Annie Dillard writes, “Not only does something come if you wait, but it pours over you like a waterfall, a tidal wave. You wait in all naturalness without expectation…emptied, translucent, and that which comes rocks and topples you; it will shear, loose, launch, winnow, grind.”

Laboring to bring peace into the world is a risky endeavor, one that promises to rock and topple us. Lighting a candle at the dusk of twilight, we await the breaking of the dawn. In this season of hope, I invite you to tell the stories of our faith to your children again, to remind them that God breaks into our lives like the coming of the new day. Have a blessed season!