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As a child, winter seemed deeply mystical to me. During Advent, the churches would gleam as soft, flickering candlelight illuminated the stained-glass windows. The Christmas narrative was told through the shimmering, beautiful glass. One would stand in dark streets amid soft, silent snowfall, beholding radiant images of the Blessed Virgin and the Christ Child. The saints who would devote their lives to this sacred Child were also represented in the glass mosaics, standing in silent witness to the holiness of Christ. Winter stars pulsated in the profound silence of darkest space as the churches bore quiet testimony to the grace of God. And then those churches would slowly fill with the faithful, who walked through snow and ice to pay homage to the Creator of this hallowed season. Hymns of gratitude rose like angels' wings into the frozen night. It was in wintertime that I came to adore Christ with all my being. The sacred feeling of winter extends far beyond Christmas. The landscape may be encased in a shroud of frost, but the hearts of mankind are open to the perfect warmth of Heaven. The love of Christ extends to all seasons; however, I was first introduced to this divine love during the long, dark winters of my youth. I loved the cold seasons then, and I love them now. Winter is truly a blessed time of year.
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