
Finding Stillness on Acres in Advent
There’s a kind of silence that you only get on thirteen acres in early December.
It isn’t peaceful in one of those “spa with music and scented candles” kind of way. Not that I’d find that peaceful anyway!
It’s peaceful in the “everything is frozen and refusing to move” kind of way.
The grass is brittle. The garden is dead. The mud is solid. The trees creak like old bones every time the wind pushes through. Even the chickens give me that look that says “really… you came out here for this?”
And honestly? I feel the same way.
December doesn’t ask permission before it steamrolls you. It shows up with a clipboard full of expectations:
Christmas programs.
Three worship services every week.
Sermons.
Meetings.
Family plans.
Shopping.
School programs.
Year-end everything.
The month demands so much noise from me… while the land around me goes completely quiet.
And that’s the first gut-punch lesson Advent always hands me: The world gets loud, but God often whispers.
You’d think the “holy season” would feel holy. But Advent rarely starts that way for me. It usually starts with me trying to figure out how to beat the sun to the chicken coop, how to not slip on the icy slope behind the barn, and how in the world I’m going to get everything done before the 24th.
But out there on that cold, stubborn ground I’m reminded that God does His best work in the quiet places.
“Be still, and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10 (ESV)
Be still?
In December?
Sure, God. Let me just pencil that in between “fix frozen coop door” and “write sermon number three for the week.”
But that’s exactly the point. Stillness isn’t what happens when everything calms down. Stillness is what happens when I stop pretending I can carry everything myself.
The fields don’t fight the season. The garden doesn’t resist the freeze. The trees don’t argue their way out of winter. They simply… stop. Rest. Wait.
Advent is the Church’s way of reminding us: You can’t force fruit in winter. But you can prepare your heart for the Light that’s about to break in.
So this week, here’s my Advent invitation not just to you, but to myself:
Step into the quiet field, even if it’s only for five minutes.
Bundled up. Breath in the cold air. Let the noise fall off you. Let your soul settle for a moment so you can hear the whisper again.
Because while the world is screaming for more, God is quietly preparing to give us what we could never give ourselves:
A Savior.
A Light in the long night.
Hope wrapped in flesh.
Out here on the acreage, Advent begins with a frozen field and a quiet whisper. And honestly? That’s enough.








