Category: Psychology

Spring’s Whisper: Why Our Souls Ache for Renewal Each Winter

Ah, friends, can you feel it? That subtle shift in the air, the way the wind carries a hint of warmth instead of a bite? Here in the Outer Banks, where the ocean meets the dunes in eternal conversation, spring is tiptoeing in like a long-lost friend. The crocuses are poking their heads through the sandy soil, and the birds are tuning up their symphony as if they’ve been practicing all winter. It’s finally here—Spring!—and oh, how I’ve ached for it through those gray, relentless months.

Winter has its own quiet beauty, doesn’t it? The stark branches against a steel sky, the hush of snow (or in our case, the rare frost on the beach grass), forcing us inward to reflect and rest. But let’s be honest: by February, that ache sets in. It’s not just the cold seeping into our bones; it’s a deeper longing, a soul-stirring yearning for something fresh, something alive. Why do we pine for spring every year? I think it’s because we’re wired for renewal. Winter strips us bare—exposes our vulnerabilities, our weariness—and in that barrenness, we crave the promise of growth. It’s like our hearts are echoing the earth’s cycle, reminding us that endings aren’t forever; they’re just preludes to beginnings.

This brings me to one of my favorite verses, tucked away in Lamentations 3:22-23: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” New every morning. Isn’t that a balm for the winter-weary soul? Just as the sun rises without fail, painting the horizon in pinks and golds, God’s grace resets with each dawn. No grudges from yesterday’s stumbles, no exhaustion from the long night—pure, unearned freshness. And spring? It’s like God amplifying that truth across the landscape. The seasons themselves are His gentle touch, a rhythmic reminder that life isn’t static. Winter teaches us endurance, autumn whispers of letting go, summer invites abundance, but spring—spring shouts resurrection.

Think about it: those first green shoots pushing through frozen ground, the blossoms unfurling like prayers answered. It’s God’s way of saying, “See? I make all things new.” In the grind of daily life, we might forget His presence, but the seasons won’t let us. They’re His fingerprints on creation, touching us with hope when we need it most. That ache in winter isn’t despair; it’s anticipation, a holy hunger for the divine renewal that’s always coming.

So, as we step into this season, let’s lean into it. Walk barefoot on the warming sand, plant a seed or two, and let the newness soak in. What mercy are you claiming today? What winter weight are you shedding? Ponder with me, dear readers—spring is here, and with it, God’s faithful touch. Great is His faithfulness, indeed.

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Getting my ducks in a row

Today I woke up and actually felt it: “Okay, Christine, time to get my ducks in a row.” You know that phrase? The one that pops up when life’s chaos finally hits a tipping point, and you’re like, ” Nope, we’re organizing now or ” We’re doomed.

So what’s the deal with ducks? I did a quick dive because my brain wouldn’t let it go. Turns out, no one really knows for sure where “getting your ducks in a row” came from. It’s murky, like most good idioms. Some say it’s from old carnival shooting galleries where you lined up those little metal ducks to knock ’em down—everything neat, predictable, ready to blast. Others point to bowling (duckpins, those short, fat pins set up in tidy rows). But it’s probably from watching mama duck waddling along with her babies trailing in perfect formation, no stragglers, no drama.

Me? I like the mama duck version best. Because right now my life feels more like a bunch of rogue ducklings scattering in every direction—bills, emails, that half-finished project glaring at me, the laundry pile that’s achieving sentience. But today? Today I’m channeling the mama duck energy. I made lists. Actual lists. On paper. With checkboxes. I even crossed one off just to feel powerful.

It’s not glamorous. No big life overhaul. Just tiny alignments: start on taxes, scheduled the dentist (ugh), finally replied to those texts I’ve been ghosting. Ducks. In A. Row.

Feels good, though. Like I can breathe a little deeper. Maybe tomorrow they’ll scatter again—who knows?—but for now, I’ve got this little parade going.

Anyone else out there getting their ducks in formation today? Or are your ducks more like pigeons, flipping the bird at organization? Drop a comment if you’re feeling the row vibes.

Quack on,

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Good Grief.

I’ve moved through my storm of anger. It burned hot, it felt righteous, it gave me the energy to rail against the injustice, the confusion, and the horrible loss of Charlie Kirk. But anger—left unchecked—will eat you alive. So often, anger is a mask for what lies beneath: fear, helplessness, grief.

But here’s the truth: We are not helpless. We do not need to fear. We are grieving.

Paul reminds us: “Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger” (Ephesians 4:26). Anger is a signal from God and in His wisdom He warns us not to camp there.

In time, we will each move toward acceptance. Not resignation—acceptance. Acceptance is freedom. Jesus modeled this in Gethsemane when He prayed, “Not my will, but Yours be done” (Luke 22:42). That was not passive surrender. It was the hardest acceptance imaginable.

So if you’re caught in anger right now, let yourself name it. Feel it. Then ask: What lies beneath? Fear? Loss? Grief? When we bring those roots into the light, we are already stepping toward acceptance. And in acceptance, we find room to breathe, room to forgive, room to heal—and the strength to move forward.

That’s how we carry on the work Charlie started; and like Charlie, we follow the call of Jesus.

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My Brain’s New Tenant

Recently my mornings feel like I spent the night front row at a rock concert with several shots of tequila. I promise you, I have not. And yet my brain hurts just the same.

Meet the newest thing in my life: Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension (IIH). I swear they make this stuff up. Basically, it means: “We don’t know why, but your brain is building up too much pressure inside your skull.”

Let me try to explain how it feels: it’s as if a hormonal teenager moved into my head and is blasting vintage Metallica. Or, you know, that piercing sound that makes all moms wince—a toddler having a tantrum in a store aisle. That’s the feeling.

I didn’t invite this monster into my skull, but here IIH is. It’s absurd. And since crying only makes it hurt more, I’ll laugh. No angry teen or bratty toddler is going to break my will. I’ll fight, I’ll live, and I’ll keep laughing in the face of pain—because wit and chutzpah can outsmart anything life throws my way.

Remember: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46:1)

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Some days, the best we can do is simply exist.

The to-do lists sit untouched, conversations feel too costly, and the world seems to demand more than we can give.

But still, we breathe.
Still, we are here.
Still, the sun moves across the sky—slowly, faithfully—whether we watch it or not.

Maybe the work of today isn’t accomplishing or producing.
Maybe it’s letting the soul rest, trusting that rest itself is holy.
Even the earth has its seasons of stillness before the green returns.

So if today feels like too much, remember: you are not failing for needing a pause.
You are simply honoring the truth that even the strongest hearts need quiet to keep beating.

“Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28
Today, let’s lay down the weight we’re carrying and lean into the arms of the One who never grows weary.

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Is This It?

There’s been a lot of movement lately—both below our feet and all around us. The Ring of Fire has been rumbling again, the news cycle is filled with reports of quakes, eruptions, and more shootings than I can emotionally register. It’s hard not to feel the earth itself groaning.

And in times like these, people start to ask: Is this it?

Is this what the Bible warned us about? The birth pains? The unraveling?

I’ve asked it too.

But then I remember: people were asking the same question in 1942, watching the world burn in real time. They asked it during the Black Plague, during the Spanish Flu, during slavery, famine, persecution. The question isn’t new.

What’s striking is not the fear—but the human pattern of forgetting that we’ve been here before.

This doesn’t mean we ignore the warnings. But it reminds me to live alert, not alarmed.

Maybe every generation is given a window to wake up. To look at the world and reckon with what we’ve built, and who we’ve become.

And maybe “the end” isn’t always about apocalypse. Maybe it’s also about invitation.

To return to God.
To bolster our faith.
To strengthen our resolve to love, to live with truth, to walk in light.

So no, I don’t know if this is it. But I know this is real. And that’s enough to live awake—and to return.

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