Light in the Middle of Winter

Most mornings, I wake before the day asks anything of me. Gentle and soft.

I sit for a moment before getting up, offering the day back to God before I start shaping it myself. That small pause changes everything.

Winter mornings are dark now. Long and heavy. But when I step outside, the greenhouse glows—warm, lit, alive. In the middle of the coldest season, there is green, like an oasis in the desert.

I walk through slowly. Leaves catching the light. Soil holding yesterday’s warmth. Life is continuing, not loudly, but faithfully. The greenhouse has become more than a workspace—it feels like provision. A blessing. A reminder that God knows how much darkness we can carry and always leaves a lamp lit somewhere.

Creation begins here, long before anything is shared.

There is tending to do—watering, checking soil, harvesting—but I don’t rush it. I’ve learned that attention is an act of faith. When I slow down enough to notice what’s actually in front of me, ideas come quietly. Not as pressure. As invitation.

Later, in the studio, the work becomes visible. Measuring. Stirring. Labeling. Repetition steadies my thoughts. I used to believe creation required striving. Now I believe it requires listening and purpose. The tinctures I made in fall are ready for bottling.

I stop when my body asks me to. Rest is not a failure of discipline—it’s trust. Some days I film. Some days I write. Some days I simply live the thing I’ll one day share. I believe God wastes nothing, especially not ordinary faithfulness.

As the light shifts, I feel reflective. I’m not building something loud. I’m building something rooted. A body of work shaped by attention, prayer, and lived experience. A life that feels aligned from the inside.

Evening comes gently. Simple food. Familiar routines. I prepare for rest with the same care I bring to my work, grateful for another day carried.

From the outside, this day might look small.

From the inside, it feels full of light. Even in the dark days of winter.

Love,
Connie Lynn

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