Our first worship gathering of 2026 found us in fluffy fresh snow. The air was brisk but there was little wind. We gathered around a circle near the banks of Laurel Creek which was partially ice covered but still flowing. The sound of flowing water almost blocked out the sound of the traffic flowing on the expressway in the distance.

This place has become a sacred place for us. We have gathered here monthly for worship, along this particular bend in Laurel Creek, for much of the past ten. It is our sanctuary, and we have watched it change over the seasons and years. At one time, there was a dead Beech tree standing right here that was eventually cut down. The stump was left, and we used it as an altar, and the log sat just over here for years and we used it as a bench, a table, and for serving communion. This summer, it completely decayed and returned to the earth. 

In Genesis 28:16, Jacob was on a journey and stopped to sleep for the night under the stars, using a stone for a pillow. As he slept he had a dream in which God showed up and gave him a message. When he woke up in the morning he said, ' Surely, God was in this place and I didn't even know it.' And then he built an altar to honour God’s presence.

Barbara Brown Taylor writes in her book, An Altar in the World, "Earth is so thick with divine possibility that it is a wonder we can walk anywhere without cracking our shins on altars."
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Surely, God is here in this place. And, surely there are altars everywhere.

Our invitation is to look for altars: places thick with divine possibility, something that invites you to pause and pay attention, something that makes you wonder, something that reminds you that God is present, even in the dead of winter!

Winter's joy comes in fluffy snow
brightening the drab landscape,
pillowy soft to catch my falling body,
sculptable magic inspiring creativity,
insulating life and promise.

Joy comes in howling winds
and stormy weather that shuts
down roads, schools, meetings,
creating space to curl up at home
and the joy of missing out.

Joy comes in the persistent
song of a cardinal in February,
perched high atop a bare tree,
brilliant red against brilliant blue,
singing for love and life.

Joy comes in remembering 
we are enough in who we are today.
we are not our labours.
We are not our achievements.
We are deep, strong, resilient, connected.
We are made for joy.

​- Wendy Janzen

This is my found poetry based on a quote I shared in our February newsletter. Here is the full quote, followed by the poem I created.

"Once we stop wishing it were summer, winter can be a glorious season in which the world takes on a sparse beauty... It's a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order.
Doing those deeply unfashionable things--slowing down, letting your spare time expand, getting enough sleep, resting--is a radical act now, but it is essential."
(Katherine May, in Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times)

My poem:
Slow down.
Stop wishing it were summer.
Winter be a glorious season
the world a sparse beauty.

Time for reflection, recuperation,
slow replenishment.

Do deeply unfashionable things
let spare time expand
get enough sleep.
Rest is a radical act.

​- Wendy Janzen

We gathered along the banks of our beloved Laurel Creek in the snowy sub-zero temperatures of January. This poem invited us into reflecting on the mind of winter, and we contemplated the similarities with the invitation in Philippians 2:5-7 to 'adopt the mind of Christ.' What do you think? What might you discover if you see the trees, creek, or creatures here on their terms rather than ours?  What might God want you do learn by regarding winter? 

Due Regard by Wallace Stevens.

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing themself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is. 

Our February worship gathering was led by Lisa and Leah; and the theme was love - not romantic love, but love for the world, and in particular love of place, this place where we gather for worship. Our readings for reflection include these two:

My help is in the mountain
Where I take myself to heal
The earthly wounds
That people give to me
I find a rock with sun on it
And a stream where the water runs gentle
And the trees which one by one give me company.
So must I stay for a long time
Until I have grown from the rock
And the stream is running through me
And I cannot tell myself from one tall tree.
Then I know that nothing touches me
Nor makes me run away.
My help is in the mountain
That I take away with me.
- Mary Wood 

Psalm 96: 11-12
Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad; let the sea resound, and all that is in it. Let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them; let all the trees of the forest sing for joy.

What you love about a particular place or the wild world in general. What are the things that you love most about being in nature, about being outside amongst the more-than-humans? What does it do for your spirit? How does it change you? What gifts does it offer you? Where do you feel loved by the wild world?

Our January worship gathering focused on the theme of Refuge/Refugia. 

Winter is a season when we, and the creatures and plants around us, seek refuge from the harsh elements. It is also a metaphor for challenging and stressful times, like the times we live in with climate disasters, wars, and polarization. 

Our winter book study is on the book Refugia Faith: Seeking Hidden Shelters, Ordinary Wonders, and the Healing of the Earth by Debra Rienstra. Refugia is a biological term that describes little pockets of safety, hidden shelters in harsh conditions or times of disaster and crisis, where life persists and out of which new life emerges. Author Debra Rienstra writes:

“... even amid destruction, the forces of life yearn for renewal. A refugia faith, similarly, regards our dire conditions honestly but immerses fear and despair in longing for God's promised new life.” (p 31)

Refugia are places to find shelter, but only for a time - they are not an escape or a place to stick our heads in the snow and ignore the realities of life. More importantly, refugia are places to begin, places where the tender and harrowing work of restoration and renewal takes root. Winter doesn’t last forever; trees don’t stay in dormancy forever; animals don’t stay in hibernation or in their burrows forever; birds don’t stay in their winter nesting grounds forever. 

We can create places of refuge to protect us and renew us through the hardest times, and then launch from there into the next season or stage of regrowth. 

Psalm 46 says “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change…”
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Where do you see places of refugia in the world around you? Where do you go to seek refuge?

As this year turns to the next,
Bless the passing of time, God,
whether we like it or not.

Bless children growing right before our eyes,
our ageing bodies and ageing parents.

Bless the presence of each moment, 
and the movement of hours turning 
into days, weeks, months, 
seasons, years, lifetimes.

For the year behind us, 
may we be graced with memories.
Give us hearts large enough 
to hold heartaches, 
resilient enough to accept 
losses, and content enough
to be grateful.

For the year ahead, give us 
open hands and open minds.
Help us embrace growth and beauty,
unknowing and paradox. 

Bless the good earth who grounds us,
and horizons that give us space to see.

Bless the sun who travels
the globe each day,
and the moon whose change night
by night is perceptible.

Bless the water with is many forms,
modelling change and transformation.

Bless the sky and its moods, brilliant
​and drab and everything in between. 

Bless us with rituals that bring
shape and meaning to our days.

Bless us with companions who 
provide connection and comfort.

​Bless us with hope in a future
with light, love, and laughter.

​- Wendy Janzen

Our December worship gathering, as always, combined themes from the Advent season and the coming winter solstice. It is no coincidence that we celebrate Advent when we are at the darkest point of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. The return of the sun symbolizes the coming of the Light of the World, Emmanuel: God With Us. 

While we want to be mindful of not polarizing light and dark, or demonizing darkness, we do acknowledge that there is destruction and brokenness in the world; as a result all of us, and all of creation is in need of hope and healing. This is what we celebrate as we light candles and wait for the sun’s shift back toward lengthening days.

Just as there are different types & stages of light, twilight, and darkness, we experience light and darkness differently in our own lives. The intensity of darkness varies. Perhaps it is a constant companion - one you are more or less comfortable with. Perhaps it is a veil that you long to have lifted. Both light and dark play important roles in our lives and in creation. 

“Sing, starry sky and every constellation, for what the Eternal One has done. Shout for joy, dark soil underfoot and deep caverns below; Erupt in joyful songs, mountains and forests, and every tree in them! Sing joyfully, for the Eternal One has rescued Jacob; the splendor of God will be revealed...” (Isaiah 44:23, The Voice)

Leah invited us into a time of wandering with this invitation: "Sometimes when I enter into our wandering & wondering times, I find having a phrase or words to repeat to myself…kind of like a mantra. So today I offer you the opening line of the song The Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel, which says 'Hello Darkness, my old friend'. We invite you to use that phrase as an invitation to lean into the darkness today during your wanderings & wonderings."

After wandering and sharing with each other, we listened to this song Find the Light by David Ramirez as we lit candles. 

Our closing blessing was A Blessing for Traveling in the Dark by Jan Richardson:

Go slow
if you can.
Slower.
More slowly still.
Friendly dark
or fearsome,
this is no place
to break your neck
by rushing,
by running,
by crashing into
what you cannot see.

Then again,
it is true:
different darks
have different tasks,
and if you
have arrived here unawares,
if you have come
in peril
or in pain,
this might be no place
you should dawdle.

I do not know
what these shadows
ask of you,
what they might hold
that means you good
or ill.
It is not for me
to reckon
whether you should linger
or you should leave.

But this is what
I can ask for you:

That in the darkness
there be a blessing.
That in the shadows
there be a welcome.
That in the night
you be encompassed
by the Love that knows
your name.

- in Circle of Grace: A Book of Blessings for the Seasons, Jan Richardson