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December 17 is an Ember Day—one of the quiet hinges in the turning of the liturgical year.
Rooted in ancient rhythms, Ember Days echo the earth’s turning: winter’s stillness, spring’s awakening, summer’s fullness, autumn’s letting go. They invite us to pause, to listen, to align with the deeper currents.
This December Ember Day is a pause within a pause— stillness nested like a seed in Advent’s quiet soil. The trees have let go. The soil rests. The light thins. And I, too, am invited to release what no longer serves, to rest in what remains unresolved, to trust what is quietly taking root.
I first learned of Ember Days from my late spiritual mentor, a woman who carried a “clear knowing” of what she was called to next. Her wisdom arose from times of retreat, quiet, and waiting. Our minds, she would say, are so full of noise that the whisper of God can barely be heard.
For her, Ember Days were often spent walking among trees, listening not only with her ears, but with her heart. The forest became a chapel, the hush between branches a space for discernment.
When my mentor was alive, I was a young working mother, often struggling for the quiet she encouraged. Stillness eluded me, yet even then, I felt the longing—for spaciousness, for the sacred, for a way of listening beneath the surface.
Now, I’m nearing the age she was when she passed. In this season of holy expectancy, I find myself thinking of her again—and returning to the practice of pausing. I pray—not so much to speak, but to be spoken to. And I hear her wisdom again: that grace often arrives not with trumpets, but with the sound of bare branches stirring in the wind.
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