LUX—Winter: Staying in the Light
Hello again, friend.
More than a year ago, while working on the research that has become my next book project—LUX: The Story of Hope—I sketched an epilogue that tried to say, in one place, what I had been circling for years: that light is not merely a metaphor in the Christian story, but a structure. That hope is not a feeling of optimism we summon when life gets hard, but something we learn to stand within. That love, if it is real, has weight.
And then, a dear friend challenged me. She said, “Tim, I would love to hear from you about how to chase beauty during Advent.”
As Advent approached, it felt wrong to leave my research reflections in my journal and in a folder on my laptop. And my friend’s provocation rang true. I sensed an invitation to share what I had been learning and sketching for over a year.
And so Oh Night Divine emerged, almost reluctantly, as something lived in real time.
At first, I outlined, collected, and wrote several pieces I thought would become the Advent series. I had intended to pre-package it all and give it to you at the start of each week.
But the week before I launched Oh Night Divine, something happened.
You might call it inspiration.
Something inside me dared me to share my cosmic reflections with you every day. I’d studied light, darkness, space-time, hope, love, gravity, seasons, stars, black holes, gravitational time dilation, and the mythical beast, Leviathan.
And that’s what arrived in your inbox day by day. Well, not the Leviathan. But he’s coming.
You were receiving the reflections almost as quickly as I was writing them.
I believed that is why Oh Night Divine felt the way it did.
Organic.
Lived.
Tangible.
I didn’t design it to be consumed efficiently and forgotten till next year. I sent them to you all as invitations to walk into the cathedral of God and consider the majesty, wonder, and beauty of the cosmic story.
One of our dear friends told me—just a few days after Christmas—how much her family loved the reflections. They read them together often after dinner. The one thing she wished I’d have done was send the entire series as a PDF so they didn’t have to use their phone to access it.
When I told her how I had originally planned it, but how cosmic inspiration took over, she understood and loved how it took shape.
And, not to worry. My plan for next year is to release the entire series as a physical book, either on my site or with a publisher.
So, now you know a bit of the behind-the-scenes story of how Oh Night Divine developed. The question is, is that it?
Well, Advent has ended, and the New Year's holiday has come and gone. The first two weeks of 2026 are already behind us. After producing Oh Night Divine, I needed rest. More than I expected. It was the best kind of exhaustion.
But as the days passed, what became clear to me was this: Oh Night Divine was never meant to be an ending. It was, mysteriously, a beginning.
The work that gave birth to it is still unfolding. The questions it raised are still alive. And winter—real winter, not just the calendar kind—is still with us.
We are now standing at the threshold of the year. The calendar turns. The decorations have come down. And for many, this is the hardest season.
The past year still lingers. Failures echo. Weariness settles in. The days are short. The nights are long. And the world itself feels confusing, full of noise and division.
We live in confusing times. Deception reigns, fostering anxiety and feeding fear.
We are living in a time of perpetual twilight—a darkness that’s not quite pitch, and yet still possesses a touch of light.
So yes, we are in winter now, but also a metaphorical winter. And we must learn to stand in the dark.
The Twilight of the World
Jesus warned us of this twilight-time.
He said that in such times, many would be deceived. That fear would increase. That even people of faith would turn on one another. And that the love they once had for one another would grow cold. This warning haunts me. I don’t want my love for others to cool. That’s a precursor to death.
But then Jesus said something unexpected.
He did not encourage us to try to escape. He did not say, "Try to outsmart the darkness."
He said: endure.
Remain.
Stand.
Abide.
And in that endurance, he promised healing. This is what winter teaches us, if we are willing to learn.
Letting Our Roots Grow Deep
January is a strange month.
Everywhere you turn, you’re being urged to begin. To set goals. To map the year. To be productive. To make this the year where everything finally works.
Planners fill our feeds.
Vision frameworks promise clarity.
The message is subtle but relentless: if you don’t move fast now, you’ll fall behind.
These impulses aren’t wrong. Order matters. Intention matters. I set goals too—for my health, my work, my finances, my hopes for the future. But the problem isn’t that we plan. It’s when and how we are told to plan.
Because nature tells a different story.
Winter is only a few weeks old. And we still have months of it ahead.
In the natural order of things, winter is not the time of visible growth. It is a time of consolidation. Roots deepen. Strength gathers quietly underground. Life doesn’t disappear—but it slows, concentrates, and prepares.
The squirrels are still busy, but not frenzied.
The birds are still present, but they are not singing their spring songs.
Everything is quieter … for a reason. Wintering is formation.
We’ve been taught that summer is the season for rest and winter is the season for hustle. But the created world tells the opposite story. Spring brings emergence. Summer brings intensity, labor, and wild growth. The sun is brilliant then—powerful enough to scorch, but also to ripen and strengthen. Summer is not a soft season. It is a demanding one.
Winter, by contrast, is merciful.
The light is weaker on purpose.
In Scotland, one museum keeps a collection of rare William Turner watercolors. These works are so delicate that they can only be displayed in January. The pigments and paper cannot withstand strong sunlight. They are revealed only when the light is gentle.
I love that.
It feels like a parable.
There are parts of our lives—ideas, questions, longings, half-formed hopes—that can only be handled when the light is soft. In the busy seasons, they would be scorched. But in winter, they can be brought out, examined, and honored.
January is not asking you to perform; it is inviting you to gather yourself.
To revisit old journals.
To speak slowly with people you love.
To take stock—not just of what you want to do, but of who you are becoming.
You don’t have to map the whole year in a day. Or even a month. What you are allowed to do now is lean into winter—to trust that the quiet is purposeful, and that the light, though gentle, is enough.
Where We Go From Here
So rather than closing the door with the end of Oh Night Divine, I’ve decided to open the next one.
Beginning next week, I’m offering LUX—Winter: A Season of Light. It will look familiar if you loved Oh Night Divine.
Here’s what it is.
LUX—Winter is a seasonal series with written reflections and audio readings, released in a rhythm over the coming weeks. It will not be daily. There will be space to breathe.
And let me be clear. This is not a program. I’m not going to help you be more productive. It is not a subscription. I’m not going to give you content for the sake of content. It is not something to “keep up with.”
It is a place to stay a little longer in the light.
LUX will not rush you, overwhelm you, or ask you to make your faith more performative. It will ask you to remain human. To keep your love from freezing. To let your roots grow deep. It will invite you to learn how to stand when the world trembles in the twilight.
Winter has always been the season where light is most easily misunderstood. Where darkness feels heavier than it truly is. Where hope can feel abstract. LUX—Winter will dwell there, without rushing toward resolution.
If Oh Night Divine met you where you were, I believe LUX—Winter will do the same.
Advent taught us to wait for the Light. LUX will teach us how to stand in it and live by it.
So, if you would like to continue the pilgrimage, I’d be honored to walk it with you.
I look forward to seeing you in the light.
—Tim
A winter rhythm of written reflections and audio readings, offered in a gentle cadence. LUX is not a course or subscription, but a shared season of attention. It's an invitation to remain, reflect, and learn how to live by the light.
