This morning, before the sun had quite decided whether it would bother rising, I glanced toward the basin behind the old general store. Yesterday, the water was still moving—a quiet, pewter-colored mirror breathing in slow ripples. Overnight, the temperature dropped like a stone, and the world held its breath long enough for ice to knit itself across the surface.

And there, marching across that fragile new skin, were three geese.

They walked in single file, necks stretched forward with the earnest determination of pilgrims. The ice was thin enough that I half-expected it to splinter beneath them, but they didn’t seem concerned. They trusted it—trusted this transformation that arrived sometime between last night’s dishes and this morning’s coffee. Their steady, deliberate pace made me stop. Behind them, faint footprints trailed across the ice, temporary as blessings whispered in the dark.

It struck me how abruptly the world can change. One day water flows as it always has; the next, it holds weight—avian weight, at least. One day geese float. The next, they walk. And they do so without debate, without gathering at the edge to consult the weather app, the Farmer’s Almanac, or a particularly anxious neighbor goose.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are bracing for a storm. Another winter alert announces deep snowfall, shrieking winds, temperatures meant to humble even the hardiest among us. The phrase State of Emergency has already been invoked, which explains the packed grocery store parking lots, the lines snaking out the doors, the carts filled with enough provisions to survive a minor apocalypse—or at least a weekend without convenience.

We have been here before. Forecasts that promised catastrophe and delivered little more than a politely frosted driveway. Bread aisles stripped bare for storms that fizzled somewhere in the upper atmosphere. And yet here we are again, preparing as if this time the earth really might tilt off its axis.

Anticipation is its own kind of weather system—part dread, part adrenaline, part ancient instinct whispering, Something might be coming, so gather yourself. We honor it by checking flashlights, restocking pantries, securing what could blow away. We also honor it by remembering: we cannot know with certainty what tomorrow will bring.

Winter storms are honest about this uncertainty. They remind us that prediction has limits, and that nature has no obligation to uphold our expectations, good or bad.

But back to the geese.

Their quiet procession across that newly frozen basin felt like a small parable delivered on webbed feet: that endings and beginnings often arrive without fanfare. That conditions shift while we sleep. That we sometimes stand on surfaces we were sure would not hold—either because they truly won’t, or because they’ve been strengthening in unseen hours.

Something about their movement—slow, intentional, almost prayerful—nudged an ache in my own heart. This moment, this week, this incoming storm holds more than logistical inconvenience. It holds interior weather, too. The kind that has nothing to do with the jet stream.

As we brace for the literal wind to rise, many among us are already weathering storms: the loneliness that rattles windows at night; the financial squall that keeps growing; the emotional whiteout that obscures the next step; the bitter cold of relationships gone distant. And for some, cold is not metaphor but menace—those without warm shelter, those shut indoors without support, those hungry in ways a loaf of bread cannot touch.

Watching the geese, I felt a tug toward a different kind of preparation. Yes, we gather what we need to stay safe. But perhaps we also gather spiritual provisions—mercy, compassion, attentiveness. Perhaps we gather tenderness for the muskrats huddled in their lodges, for deer making slow circuits through the woods, for creatures who move through storms with no grocery store lines to stand in.

Perhaps we gather tenderness for ourselves, too.

The geese did not ask for certainty before stepping out. They trusted the day they were given. Maybe our own footsteps across this frozen stretch of time can be just as brave—just as steady—carried by the quiet assurance that even in storm season, the Spirit walks with us.

So as the clouds thicken and the wind begins its rehearsals, I find myself offering a wordless prayer—not a formal petition, but an opening of the heart. A prayer that rises like breath in cold air:

May those without shelter find safety.
May those who are hungry be fed.
May the homebound feel the warmth of connection.
May the creatures of field and marsh endure what comes.
May the storms inside us be met with gentleness.
And may we—all of us—walk with the courage of those three geese, trusting the ice beneath our feet, trusting the One who accompanies us into whatever weather arrives.

As the storm approaches, perhaps you, too, might find your own prayer in the quiet moments—something as simple as gratitude, or as urgent as hope—for yourself, for your neighbor, for every trembling place in this world that needs shelter tonight.