In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.—Christina Rosetti, “In the Bleak Midwinter”
How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heaven—Phillips Brooks, “O Little Town of Bethlehem”
Once in my teen years, a very long time ago, I was vacuuming our living room. I had Christmas music playing on the stereo and had turned the volume up so that I could hear it over the vacuum’s loudness. My mother came into the room, shouting at me to “Turn down that racket! I can’t hear myself think!”
After turning off the vacuum and reducing the stereo volume, I told her, “I don’t know how you can clean without music playing!” Mom’s reply was that there would come a time when I, too, would appreciate a little quiet. I disagreed, saying, “I’ll never be that old!”
I hereby (somewhat sheepishly) admit that I am, indeed, “that old.” Moreover, I understand now that Mom hadn’t been talking about age, exactly. Rather, she’d been referring to a phenomenon of maturity—namely, that there are times when adults welcome quiet for self-reflection and contemplation.
In recent years, I have relished alone time around Christmas and New Year as an opportunity for quiet thought, a chance to take stock of my life and truly feel the present—the gift of each moment. I find myself appreciating (at a much lowered volume) holiday songs that refer to silence and the fallow but life-giving period of winter as a time of gratitude for God’s bountiful goodness and forgiveness for my own and others’ failings.
I have learned that a clanging gong may be rightly babbling its joy for all to hear, but that sometimes the joy inherent in a softly whispered “thank you” is equally impactful.
I’ve discovered with surprise that, sometimes, the most well-known verse isn’t the most meaningful.
And I’ve finally—finally—reached the point of mature adulthood when I can humbly say “My mother is always right.”
—Jenifer Hanson, Prairiewoods director
photo taken at Prairiewoods by Staci Schiltz