Embrace the Freeze

The forecast this week promised more snow, and the temperatures have been unrelenting. This is the kind of cold that makes you question your decision to live in New York, the kind that has my dog abandoning our usual walks to burrow into my bed instead. The sensible response seems obvious: stay inside, turn up the heat, wait for spring.

But my children have different plans. They have been sledding down every hill they can find, they have been skating on the pond and this weekend they're eager to try out new cross-country skis in our woods.  They're not ignoring the cold—they're bundling up and walking straight into it, choosing to meet winter on its own terms rather than waiting for it to leave.

St. John's Pond is hidden under inches of ice right now—so thick you might not even recognize it as water. 

The pond isn't resisting or apologizing for this transformation. It's simply being what this temperature and this snowfall have made  it: a place transformed by conditions it didn't choose but isn't fighting either.

There's an old winter wisdom that says you can either avoid the cold or embrace it, but avoiding it just makes you miserable. Bundle up properly, get outside, and suddenly the frozen landscape becomes something you can meet rather than something to avoid. The cross-country trails open up. The quality of light becomes clear. You notice things you miss entirely when you're rushing from heated house to heated car.

But here's the thing about embracing winter: it doesn't mean pretending it's spring. My kids bundling up to play aren't denying the cold or the depth of the snow. They're meeting it honestly. And underneath all that honest encountering is something deeper— desire. They want to explore those woods. They want to discover what winter reveals that other seasons hide. They want spring to come eventually, yes, but they also want to be fully present for winter while it's here.

Earlier this week we celebrated Candlemas, the feast when Christians have traditionally looked for snowdrops—those small white flowers that medieval Christians called Candlemas bells because they ring in the turning of the season. There's an old legend that when Eve, of Adam and Eve, despaired of winter outside the Garden of Eden, an angel transformed snowflakes into snowdrop flowers, giving her something to look for pushing through the frozen ground. A sign of hope in the middle of winter.

The snow around St. John's Pond is so deep right now that we can't see if the snowdrops are even there Maybe they're under there somewhere, pushing up through frozen ground. Maybe they're not ready yet. We can’t     know. 

But the desire itself—the longing for those small bells to ring, for hope to push through—that's not weakness. That's faith. Not certainty about spring, but desire for it. Not avoidance of winter, but full presence in it while trusting something is working beneath the surface we cannot see.

The pond taught us in Episode 1 that life continues beneath the ice. Episode 2 reminded us that the snow that falls from above becomes the water that sustains us. Now, in this deep freeze, the pond is teaching both embrace and longing: receive the winter that is, while trusting in the spring that's coming. Bundle up and walk into the cold, while somewhere under all that snow the snowdrops are doing their patient work of hope.

A hope-filled life isn't about knowing when spring will come. It's about wanting it—wanting resurrection when we feel buried, wanting hope to push through whatever is covering us right now—while also being fully present for the winter we're actually in. Not retreating into comfort. Not pretending it's easier than it is. But showing up, bundled properly, ready to meet what is while longing for what will be.

This week, before the next snow falls, consider what it means to both embrace the freeze and long for the thaw. The pond does both at once—fully winter now, but already holding the promise of spring in seeds and sediment we cannot see. Perhaps we're called to the same: full presence in difficulty, full trust in what's working beneath the surface, and the holy desire that keeps us watching for snowdrops even when they're buried under all that snow.

A Prayer

God of deep freeze and hidden flowers, you call us to meet winter honestly while trusting spring is coming, to bundle up and walk into the cold while longing for warmth we cannot yet see. Grant us courage to participate in what is, not what we wish would be, and plant in us the holy desire that watches for snowdrops pushing through frozen ground—wanting, not knowing, but wanting still. Through Christ, who embraced the cold and the cross, was buried like a seed, and rose as the firstfruits of the spring that will never end. Amen.