Grace does not always ask us to stop — sometimes it walks with us.
Grace When Summer Turned Into Winter
I was ready to publish last Thursday.
The words were arranged. The post was finished.
And yet — it did not feel true.
Sometimes there are no right words.
Only honest ones.
And honesty asked me to pause.
We live in a world that rewards polish — perfect bodies, perfect homes, perfectly curated lives — while many of us are simply trying to make it through days that feel busy, chaotic, and quietly overwhelming. Support, real support, can only come from authenticity. Without it, we are just performing for one another.
Although it is summer here in South Africa, I am wintering.
I did not realize this was a thing until I came across Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May — a book that gave language to a season I was already living. Not a season of weather, but a season of the soul.
Grace in Our Wintering
Wintering is a season of life—not of weather.
It is not failure.
It is not weakness.
And it is not something we choose.
Wintering arrives when life turns us inward through illness, loss, long waiting rooms, unanswered paperwork, and grief that does not resolve neatly. It comes when forward motion slows and we are asked to live differently—not because we want to, but because we must.
Grace, in these seasons, is not about endurance or productivity.
Grace is about permission.
Permission to be out of sync with the world.
Permission to stop pretending it is still summer inside.
Permission to admit that some seasons require withdrawal, rest, and care rather than momentum.
We are not taught how to live these seasons. Instead, we hide them. We put on brave faces. We grieve quietly, behind closed doors, believing we have failed at something everyone else seems to manage so effortlessly.
But wintering is not an anomaly.
It is part of being human.
Grace, as the Earth Understands It
Nature understands grace far better than we do.
Trees release their leaves without apology.
Animals conserve, migrate, or sleep.
Nothing in nature pretends it is summer when it is not.
Winter is not the death of the life cycle — it is its crucible.
The place where transformation happens quietly, invisibly, without applause.
Dormice lay on fat to survive the cold months.
Plants and animals do not fight winter. They prepare. They adapt. They change form. And in doing so, they survive.
Grace, in nature, looks like cooperation with reality rather than resistance to it.
| Nature understands grace far better than we do. Trees release their leaves. Mountains wait. Life does not rush the seasons or apologize for them.
Grace Where I Am Now
This is where I find myself.
My daughter’s cancer has returned — a pain no parent can solve or soften.
My body waits for healing while bureaucracy decides when it is allowed.
I navigate visas, residency applications, and taxes in two countries.
Life continues to ask for attention even when my heart is tired.
And yet, I am learning — slowly — to rest.
I am learning to listen to my body, to my soul, to the quiet voice that says enough for today. I am learning to release the guilt that whispers I should be doing more, giving more, cooking more, spoiling my husband more.
Grace is teaching me that rest is not neglect.
It is preparation.
Grace is allowing myself to winter without shame.
Grace as a Choice
We may never choose when winter comes.
But we can choose how we meet it.
We can fight it — hardening ourselves, refusing to feel, pretending nothing has changed.
Or we can invite it in — tending ourselves gently, allowing the shedding, trusting that something new is quietly forming beneath the surface.
Grace lives in that choice.
Winter asks something of us.
Not productivity.
Not perfection.
But honesty. Stillness. Care.
And when we allow ourselves to live these unfashionable truths — slowing down, resting, letting life be smaller for a while — something profound happens.
Grace grows roots. And in the dark, those roots gather the strength we will one day need to rise again.
2 Corinthians 12:9 “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
A Gentle Closing
I want to share a book that gave language to something I didn’t know how to name:
Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May.
It does not hurry towards answers.
It does not offer quick fixes.
Instead, it reminds us that everyone winters—some once, some many times—and that these seasons are not failures, but part of being human.
If you are wintering too—whether quietly or visibly—please hear this:
You are not broken.
You are not weak.
You are not behind.
You are not failing at life.
You are being carried through a season that asks for grace.
And even when winter feels unbearably lonely, you are not alone. God is present in the stillness, the the waiting, in the long nights where nothing seems to change. Others are standing in the cold too—quietly, bravely—learning how to live by grace until the light shifts again.
May grace grow roots in you here.
May those roots gather strength in the dark.
And when the season turns, may you rise gently, changed but not diminished.
With love, gentleness, and grace,
Renée 
