All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:
The crownless again shall be king.
J.R.R. Tolkien
It’s almost the shortest day of the year. The trees in the ravine beside us have dropped their leafy clothing to stand starkly bare. They reach up, silhouetted against the multi-coloured sunset in a strange kind of beauty, stretching out limbs to be caressed by blankets of snow. Even in this most southernmost part of Canada, we don’t expect new growth on the trees until well into May.
While winter can be limiting, I’ve always loved the coziness of the hearth at this time, the turning inward, the time to knit a row in an afghan, pick up a book, take a long winter afternoon’s nap. As the year comes to an end, it’s time to take stock, to empty filing cabinets, organize cupboards, to cook up a hearty soup or stew. We are cheered by the expectation of Christmas, and the memories of childhood wishes, the magic of Christmas lights.
Against the bleakness of this winter landscape we wait for the turn, the coming back of the sun, the hope of rebirth, though all life appears to be in slumber. The apostle Paul talks about how though outwardly we appear to be wasting away, day by day we are inwardly being renewed.
There is a part of us that does not die, the Notre Dame that arises from the ashes like the phoenix, that knits together the dry bones into life, that remembers Eden and awaits the call to rise again.
