The first snowstorm of the season hit this past weekend, and some 10+
inches later we’re clearing paths and shoveling around entrances to camp. It was the first significant snowfall that we’ve had here since January 2024.
Snow has a way of quieting camp. Trails that rang with summer laughter now lie hushed, waiting. The lake rests beneath its frozen veil, and the trees stand bare yet steadfast, reminding us that even in stillness, life endures. Winter is not absence; it is preparation. Beneath the frost, roots deepen. Beneath the silence, renewal stirs.
At Camp Emmaus, we know that ministry is not only about the busy seasons of programs and gatherings. It is also about the quieter rhythms—those moments when we pause, breathe, and listen for God’s whisper in the wind. Winter invites us to embrace Sabbath, to trust that rest is holy, and to believe that transformation is already underway, even when unseen.
This season also reminds us of the warmth we share in community. A fire in the lodge, a song lifted in worship, a story told around the table: these are embers of belonging that glow against the cold. They remind us that Christ’s light shines brightest when we gather, even in the darkest nights.
The lyrics of an old-time tune written by Molly Mason captures winter’s essence beautifully:
Darkest days, brightest nights
Mother nature got it right
Silver sky, full moon light
Darkest days, brightest nights
As we step into these darkest days and brightest nights of winter, may we carry both the hush and the hope. May we honor the gift of rest, and may we kindle the fire of community that sustains us until spring. And may we discover, in the waiting, that God is already at work—shaping us, renewing us, and preparing us for the seasons yet to come.
Respectfully in Christ,
Randall Westfall
