While Winter Still Lingers

 

I sit and watch the rainfall, the soft patter spilling against the ground outside my window. I imagine how beautiful it might sound if it had something to play upon instead of damp earth. Still, I listen.

With that rhythm, my mind drifts back to winter — to snowfall and laughter, to memories that coaxed my family out of their warm hiding places and into the cold. We played like children on a slippery slope, cascading downhill on sleds and coasters. I can still hear it — the laughter, the excitement — as if it’s happening just beyond the glass. Even my own voice returns to me, happy and content, right before I wiped out on my own sled.

I remember watching the sun climb, the world around me wrapped in diamond-dusted delicacy. The trees stood fractured with light, prisms sweeping across bare branches. The only sound I could hear was my own breathing — even the birds were silent. My camera could not capture what my eyes saw or what my soul felt. I would sit at the window, watching the sunrise, until the phone rang and I was asked if I wanted to go sledding.

I bundled up and stepped outside, pulled forward by the infectious laughter of a three-year-old with rosy cheeks and boundless joy. In that moment, the cold disappeared. Watching him in his elemental happiness, I sat down in the snow because I knew — this memory would never come again in quite the same way. His tiny footprints pressed into the snow reminded me just how small he is in such a big world. We laughed. We played for days. Even my daughter admitted that the weight she had been carrying felt lighter. In that space, the only thing that mattered was being together — because family carries a warmth all its own.

And then there was the sunset.

That magical sunset that allowed me to glimpse heaven from my own backyard.

I still cry when I feel the memory, because no sunset has ever been more precious to me. I didn’t just see it — I felt it. 

The earth is  warming, the rain settling in. Candlemas had passed, and soon the rain and warmth would melt the snow. But I wasn’t ready to let it go.

My Christmas lights still glow on the front porch. My nativity still echoes the final notes of the Christmas story. The candles may be extinguished, but my heart still belongs to winter — to its quiet peace, to sunrises and sunsets that can be felt from my kitchen window, where the hush of the season still lingers.

With a warm cup of coffee in hand, I don’t mind sitting by the window in stillness. I watch the birds, read a daily devotional, and pray — because this time is mine. Summer’s rush is not yet near. Warm weather will be welcome, but not just yet.

For now, I want to linger.

A little longer in my chair with a book.

A warm cup of tea.

Watercolors on paper spread across the table.

Before the fields call me back to work.

I want to sleep beneath an extra blanket on a winter afternoon and dream of the life still unfolding ahead of me. Winter — evoking stillness in all its quiet glory — until the scent of raw spring earth rises, and this moment becomes only a memory.

and when spring finally comes, I will remember that winter once asked me to stay

-and I did 

Winter Reflection : When Time Stands Still

 

 

I started to write a winter reflection using all the photos I’ve taken over the last few days, but I kept circling back to this one. It would not let me move on. It asks for its own silence, its own space. I stop at nearly every word because I cannot get past the ethereal glow of the sun, so the rest of the story will have to wait. 

The evening sun insists on its own spotlight. It sets the ice aglow, turning it into scattered diamonds across a field of white.

The farm is frozen—

still.

 

Icicles cling to the fence line, caught mid-dance, shimmering. Even my dad’s tractor seems suspended in time, its weathered frame bowed in quiet reverence beneath the descending light. Nothing moves, yet everything feels alive.

 

My family  sled past me, laughter slicing through the cold air, but I stop. I let them pass without turning my head. The child wonder in me stands still, watching as the sun filters through icy branches, painting the world in gold, hush and wonder to my child like  eyes.

 

For a moment, I am alone inside it.

Not lonely—

just still.

 

The world steps back. Time loosens its grip. My breath deepens, my shoulders soften, and I allow myself to stay—because I know this exact moment will never return in quite the same way.

 

I wait.

Still.

 

I watch as the sun takes its final breath, slipping below the horizon, gently pressing me back into reality. And in that release, my soul exhales. It settles. It remembers how to be quiet.

 

There is peace here—in a simple sunset, in frozen fields, in borrowed stillness.

And I smile, because in that moment, standing in my own backyard,

I caught a glimpse of heaven.

Morning Reflections 12/12

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Morning Reflection

It is quiet this morning.

The kids are away visiting relatives, and the house has settled into a hush.

All I hear is Waylon’s soft whine at the door — even he likes to bask in the early light of morning.

On workdays, I am up long before the sun begins its journey into the sky. But on mornings like this, a day off, I notice the sounds that arrive gently: the wind chime outside my window tapping out a soft, unhurried melody, the faint hum of a car in the distance as it draws closer.

A truck passes by, a large Christian flag whipping fiercely in the wind.

It gives me pause.

I feel a twinge of guilt for rushing through my morning prayers, promising myself I will return to them later, when the sun is setting and I can give thanks properly for this day.

I am sitting in a room full of boxes — remnants of a late night spent decorating, procrastinating over coffee, dragging out the start of my morning. The mirror reflects the passing of time: deeper wrinkles, puffy eyes asking for better sleep. And yet, I would not want to go back.

I remember reading in the Bible how God asked Solomon what he wanted. Before I even reached Solomon’s answer, I asked myself the same question — and found my heart echoing his words: wisdom.

Wisdom comes with age.

With trials.

With the events that shape us into who we become.

I long for simpler times — being young, raising a family, moving nonstop through days and seasons. Christmases flew by then, just as this season has crept up on me now. I am still decorating, and Christmas is only a week away. I don’t mind. My décor will stay up long past Christmas, shifting gently into winter. And when the tree is finally placed back into its casket of confinement, hidden away in the closet for another eleven months, I will smile.

As a child, the month leading up to Christmas felt like an eternity — the anticipation, the excitement. Somehow, I still feel that way. The childlike wonder returns when I see Christmas come alive in people’s yards, lights twinkling around town, hearts growing softer. I wish I could bottle that feeling and save it for a hard day — take it down from the shelf and feel that rush of joy again.

All I truly have are the memories of seasons passed.

Most of my family is now in heaven. I don’t grieve during the holidays — I rejoice. I remember the good times, and I make room for new ones. Jack has been asking about Christmas for months.

“Grammy, is it time to put up the tree?”

Not yet, baby. Soon.

And I know better than to put presents under the tree too early — he would unwrap every one of them. My heart is ready for what comes next. I carry the spark of Christmas joy with me still — older now, quieter, but no less bright.

The Season of Cards and Candlelight

There’s no better feeling of love than opening the mailbox and finding a Christmas card, handwritten and bearing your name. If I were the Grinch, my heart would’ve melted right then and there. There’s a certain kind of magic in holding that sealed envelope in my hands — that sweet, childlike anticipation that makes it impossible to wait. I’ve opened plenty of cards standing right there by the mailbox, unable to resist.

By the time I’d get to the house, I’d already be studying the handwriting — sometimes elegant and careful, sometimes hurried and full of personality — but each one precious in its own way. My heart always warmed as I traced the letters with my fingers, opening the envelope as if it were the very first I’d ever received. I’ve always loved a personal note, something written just for me, a reminder that I was thought of during the most sacred season of the year.

I’ve saved every Christmas card I’ve ever received. They rest in special boxes among my decorations, and each December, when I unpack them, I take time to read a few. The ones that mean the most are the cards from those who are no longer here. Seeing their handwriting again, hearing their voices in my mind — it feels, for a brief moment, as if they’re sitting right beside me.

Every year since I can remember, my dad sent out Christmas cards. He would bribe me with free babysitting and a little Christmas cash if I’d address them for him. He always signed his name, sometimes adding a note, and I would sit for hours with stacks of envelopes and boxes beside me, my hand cramping as I wrote out each address. When the last one was sealed, stamped, and ready for the post office, I’d feel a quiet pride in the small mountain of holiday cheer we’d created together.

While I worked on his, I always wrote my own. My tradition was steeped in sentiment and ritual. I’d begin by putting on the Christmas music I grew up with — Frank Sinatra, Burl Ives, Bing Crosby, and Nat King Cole softly filling the room. I’d light a few scented candles, make a cup of tea or cocoa, and line up my calligraphy pens — each one dipped in a different shade of ink — along with extra envelopes for the inevitable smudges that come with being a left-handed writer.

No matter where I lived, there was always a fireplace. Even if it was mid-November and the air conditioner was still running, I’d light a fire anyway. It wasn’t about warmth — it was about atmosphere. I’d sit at my table, pen in hand, the soft glow of the fire flickering across the page, the scent of pine and cinnamon drifting through the room. I’d begin with one card at a time, finding just the right design for each person. Some were playful and full of whimsy; others were tender and deeply sentimental.

I would lose myself in the quiet rhythm of writing — sometimes for hours, sometimes well into the night. It was my peaceful time, my way of breathing in the season’s spirit of hope and love. I liked to think that maybe someone on my list needed that small reminder that they were remembered — that they mattered. And if I had your address, you were getting a card.

I’m ashamed to admit that last year, I didn’t send a single one. Each year, my list grows shorter, and the number I receive grows fewer still. It breaks my heart a little to see that tradition fading — that people aren’t as personal anymore. We live in an age of endless distractions and not enough time, myself included.

But I miss it. I miss that quiet connection — the thought, the pause, the love folded carefully into an envelope. Maybe it’s the world that’s changed, or maybe it’s just that we’ve forgotten the simple joy of reaching out with our own words and handwriting. Still, I believe in it — in the magic of a card chosen with care, in the ink that carries a little bit of our hearts across the miles.

The Man in the Autumn Light

 I remember the warmth of that Nashville afternoon as clearly as the silk scarf I wore — black with a pattern of faded florals in brown, navy, and cream. It was 1995, the fall of Memnoch the Devil, and I had gone alone to the signing. The air outside the little bookstore was restless, full of chatter and turning leaves, and I remember thinking how ordinary the day seemed — no candles, no velvet drapes, none of Anne’s gothic spectacle. Just sunlight, the scent of ink and paper, and a slow-moving line of admirers waiting to meet a woman who could make the dead feel more alive than the living. 

I had been standing for hours. My black leather pants had begun to cling, the silk shirt soft against my skin, the scarf draped loose around my neck. I leaned against the brick wall beside a girl who talked about Anne’s novels and our favorites, our words tumbling out in easy, polite rhythm. I remember nodding, smiling — and then, as if a breeze had changed direction, something shifted.

He came walking across the parking lot toward me. Tall. Dark-haired. The sunlight glinted through the layered strands that fell across his forehead, and his skin — my God, his skin — was flawless. Pale, luminous, like light through marble. He wore dark sunglasses, and even from where I stood I could tell there was no imperfection on his face. Not a shadow of whisker, not a freckle, not a single mark. 

He stopped in front of me, and the air changed. I’ve always been sensitive to electricity — when I step out of my car under the power lines near work, I can feel it, a low hum that makes my skin prickle. That’s what it felt like when I looked at him. That same quiet vibration rising under my skin, like the world had turned into static and I was caught inside it.

 He looked down at me. I looked up at him. We held each other’s gaze for only seconds, but it stretched into something longer — not time, exactly, but a pause between heartbeats that felt infinite. The girl beside me laughed softly and said something — an introduction, a name: Rick. He spoke too, his voice rough at the edges, not deep but textured, like velvet worn smooth in places. I don’t remember the words we said. Maybe we talked about Anne, or her books, or the line itself. I only remember the pull — that quiet, terrifying magnetism that made me afraid to touch him because I thought I might feel an actual spark.

 We stood like that for what must have been two hours. Two hours of small talk, of silence, of pretending I wasn’t hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. He smiled once — not a grin, not a laugh, but a smirk that curved his mouth in the most devilishly beautiful way. I smiled back, the same restrained echo, like a reflection in dark glass.

 When it was finally time to go inside, we moved together, though I can’t remember walking. The line carried us. I remember meeting Anne — how kind she was, how she looked at me like she truly saw me. I remember clutching my book afterward, the signature still wet. But what lingers most is the moment outside after it was all over.

 The air had cooled; the wind caught my scarf and lifted it like a black wing. I walked toward my car, feeling the silk brush my skin, my hair tugged by the breeze. I turned once before opening the door, and he was there — watching me. I met his gaze, dark glasses hiding what I wanted most to see. For a heartbeat, maybe two, we stood caught in that same suspended current. Then I got in my car, still holding the book to my chest, and drove away. 

On the way home, I thought of him — the way his presence filled the air, how my body hummed as if I’d stood too close to lightning. I was married then. Morality, responsibility, all those familiar words pressed their weight against the wonder of what had just happened. But still, the thought came — what if? 

I never saw him again. 

Years later, unpacking boxes, I found the scarf. The edges were frayed, the silk softened with time, but when I lifted it, the air seemed to remember. I could feel that faint electricity again, the memory of autumn sun and flawless skin and the whisper of something not entirely human standing before me.

 It was only a moment, but it burned itself into my memory — bright, electric, eternal. And even now, when the light hits just right, I swear I can still feel the current dancing across my skin.

--R

The Street Where Autumn Still Lives

 

Introduction:

Every year when the air cools and the leaves begin to fall, I’m reminded that memories often live in the smallest, simplest things — the smell of cut grass, the sound of wind chimes, the first chill that makes you reach for a sweater. Sometimes those tiny moments open a door to the past, and suddenly you’re not just remembering — you’re there again.

The Street in My Memory

Sometimes the simplest things can take you back to a place in your memories—especially this time of year, when the morning sun takes its time to rise.

I sat looking out a black window in the early morning hours. As the sun began to climb, so did my window, the cool morning air drifting seamlessly into my office. It made me reach for a sweater and pour another cup of coffee to quiet the chill.

I turned back to my computer—time often slips away when I work. I like to stay busy, sometimes forcefully so, especially these past few months, when my emotions have been in overdrive.

Then the wind caught the chimes on the front porch.

The soft, unexpected sound made me pause.

Outside, the leaves were swirling downward in a lyrical dance, the smell of fall filling my senses—a mix of dust, air, and earth.

And just like that, I was back in my childhood—

to the little colonial town with the tree-lined streets and old homes that seemed to whisper stories of their own.

I could almost hear the tap, tap, tap of my Mary Janes as I skipped over the cracks in the sidewalk. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. It was the long way to school, but I didn’t mind.

Light filtered through the trees in the early morning; the dew on the grass caught the sun and sparkled like diamonds. I wore the pink poncho my grandmother knitted me—I still have it tucked away in a box somewhere. It was still too warm for my faux-fur coat, surely a hand-me-down, but I felt special anyway.

Down the old sidewalk I went, kicking at the leaves as I skipped. The houses stood tall in their grand splendor, their yards full of color and the scent of autumn and dew. I can still hear the rustling of leaves as cars passed by, but I was oblivious to everything except that moment—walking beneath a canopy of trees, the morning wind sending a flurry of gold and red around me like a snowstorm of autumn.

That memory is where the child in me still lives—the part filled with wonder and enchantment. Even now, I can feel that giddy little girl again, skipping without a care in the world.

Then a phone rings in the distance, pulling me back to the present. I hit the answer button, and the memory fades—like the wisp of smoke from a blown-out candle.

But even as I greet my customer on the other end of the line, I feel it linger—

a quiet peace, a lightness of heart,

and the warmth of home, carried on an autumn breeze.

 

Each fall when the wind moves through the trees and the world turns gold, I go home again — not in miles, but in memory.

And that’s enough.

An Evening with “Goodness of God .”

An Evening with “Goodness of God”

Tonight I found myself drawn back to music I love, and I downloaded Goodness of God, sung beautifully by CeCe Winans. It brought back so many memories of playing piano with my children and dreaming of sharing music with Jack when he was a baby.

I haven’t really sat down at a piano in a very long time—my piano is in storage, I'd go over and get it out and play sometimes the acoustics were always great in there lol, but I do have a keyboard. It’s not fancy, but it works well enough for this piece, which isn’t too difficult.

I’ll have to improvise a bit since I don’t have full use of my left-hand pinky after breaking it a few years ago. I used to love sitting at the piano, but I always needed to be in the right mood to play, since I can’t play by ear and have to read music.

Still, I always dreamed of having a piano. When Jack was a baby, I wanted to play for him while he slept. I know that might sound corny, but I also remember playing for my girls when they were little—they’d dance and sing, and it was always so much fun, especially around the holidays.

We’ll see how this goes—I’ll share some audio tomorrow if it comes out decent!