Growing up in Florida, I learned the sounds of perpetual paradise. Palm trees rustling. Traffic moving. People coming and going. The steady hum of somewhere to be and something to do. The seasons changed, but rarely enough to interrupt the rhythm. Don’t get me wrong, hurricane season could bring everything to a halt. But fall didn’t necessarily mean changing leaves, and the palm trees stayed green. Winter might bring a cooler breeze, but the traffic, the people, the busyness remained.
Then, ten months ago, I moved to Pennsylvania. And I found a silence I had never experienced. A quiet made possible by animals tucked away and a world settling beneath the snow. There was moonlight reflecting off the ground and an absence of all the sounds I had grown accustomed to hearing. Silence. The kind that made me pause because I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
It called me inside. Invited me to stay home. Gave me room to embrace a kind of rest I don’t think I had allowed myself to experience as an adult. For once, the world around me seemed willing to be still, and I could feel how desperately I needed to join it. Now, as winter approaches again, I find myself looking forward to the quiet. I want evenings when staying in feels natural. I want to watch the snow fall without immediately thinking about what I should be accomplishing. I want to let the day end and believe I have done enough.
And it has me wondering how many of us have built a Florida kind of life. A life where the hum stays constant. Where our calendars remain full and there are always people to see, places to go, things to manage. Where we keep ourselves so surrounded by activity that we miss the signs that something has changed.
We’re tired in a way we weren’t before. Something that once fit begins to feel uncomfortable. We need more room, more rest, or a different rhythm—but we keep moving at the same pace. Moving to Pennsylvania made the practical demands of a new season impossible to ignore. The wardrobe has to change. You have to think about your tires. The tools you need to maintain your home are different. There are things to put away and things to bring within reach. You can feel winter coming and still be unprepared for it. I’m learning that about myself, too.
Today, as I listened to the sound of fall scurrying across the ground—leaves catching the wind, everything dry and restless—I began thinking about the sounds I’ve learned to recognize since moving here. And I realized that the sound I’m waiting for is silence.
Which means I need to prepare.
There are things to declutter.
Clothes to sort through.
A home to get ready for the months ahead.
There are also a few commitments I need to reconsider if I want to experience the rest I keep saying I long for.
I don’t have some major theological revelation to accompany any of this. No elaborate Bible study tying together snow, seasons, and the spiritual significance of putting away my summer clothes. I just keep coming back to these words: “Be still, and know that I am God.” I’ve heard them for years. But last winter, in the quiet of a place that was still new to me, I began to feel how much I needed that invitation. Winter gave me room to sit with it.
And as another winter draws near, I’m grateful to know what’s coming. I know there will be inconveniences, cold mornings, and days when I miss the Florida sun. But there will also be moonlight on snow. Animals tucked away. An evening with nowhere I need to go. Here’s to the sound of winter upon us. I’m looking forward to listening.
xo Chari