"It is not the high summer alone that is God's. The winter also is His. And into His winter He came to visit us. And all man's winters are His-the winter of our poverty, the winter of our sorrow, the winter of our unhappiness-even 'the winter of our discontent'. Winter does not belong to death, although the outside of it looks like death. Beneath the snow, the grass is growing a spring too weak and feeble for us to see that it is living. The cold does for all things what the gardener has sometimes to do for valuable trees: he must half kill them before they will bear any fruit. Winter is in truth the small beginnings of the spring.

The winter is the childhood of the year. Into this childhood of the year came the child Jesus; and into this childhood of the year must we all descend. It is as if God spoke to each of us according to our need: My son, my daughter, you are growing old and cunning; you must grow a child again, with my son, this blessed birth-time. You are growing old and selfish; you must become a child. You are growing old and careful; you much become a child. You are growing old and distrustful; you must become a child. You are growing old and petty, and weak, and foolish; you must become a child-my child, like the baby there, that strong sunrise of faith and hope and love, lying in his mother's arms in the stable."

Adela Cathcart by George MacDonald