As a northern hemisphere dweller who finds herself affected by the rhythms of the seasons, this time of year is one in which I never feel my best. The festivities of Christmas and New Year are a distant memory, and the grey, damp days of February and March stretch on as if they will never end. I’m waiting for the resurrection of the earth around me, just as I’m waiting for the resurrection of Christ on Easter. On an intellectual level I know these rebirths are coming, but when I look outside the window and see darkness and bare trees, it’s easy to forget and let myself slide, effortlessly, into despair. It becomes hard to believe that warm days are ahead, and I easily forget that I have a purpose beyond waking up and going to work.

But if I can bundle up on a cold day and go outside for a walk, I’ll see that the first crocus has pushed itself up from the dirty slush. Likewise, if I resist the urge to go back to bed on overcast Sunday mornings, I find a renewed purpose and a connection with other people through the services and fellowship at Mass. In both cases, it’s like God is speaking to me, saying, “I’m here. I’ve been here all along. You just haven’t noticed.” If I can manage to reach out just a little bit, I can find the endless sustenance and light that God provides, even when I am surrounded by bleakness.