Dear Friends,
Late last week, I watched as Sr. Kathy, Cranaleith’s Landcare and Facilities Director, stretched a long-handled broom high over her head to loosen the heavy snow clinging to the roof above the Administrative Office Building. Nearby, our property manager, Ruben, shoveled a narrow path to the tiny house, clearing a way through the drifts to its front door.
“Isn’t that a shame?” Sr. Kate said to me as we walked from my office to the Conference and Event Center. She pointed to the pine tree—four of its great green limbs cracked and fallen under the weight of the snow, blocking the entrance to Cranaleith’s labyrinth. “Do you see that? There.”
I stopped mid-stride as we looked together. I had been in the middle of a sentence—hands gesturing, feet moving quickly down the steps, thoughts racing faster than my words. Her simple invitation to look more closely made me pause, and I found myself standing near the broken branches, finally still.
During these endlessly long and cold past days, I confess I have been yearning almost nonstop for spring—for warmth, for green, for change. Yet with that longing has come subtle shame at my impatience with winter’s heaviness, frustration with constant snow removal, and anxiety about how still and sparse the land feels in this dormant season.
In a similar way, I have felt consumed with worry and grief as I read the news of our day: the suffering in Iran, Gaza, and Ukraine. I yearn for relief from the fear, anger, and uncertainty. When the divisions in our politics weigh heavily, I feel an almost constant longing for better times, better weather. I don’t want to be here, now.
When the smallest snowflakes accumulate layer upon layer, even the strongest branches break. But what if we noticed their weight? What if we allowed ourselves time and space to grieve? What if we paused—truly paused—and witnessed, instead of rushing to fix every single broken thing in our world? What if we stood in those places where we can hold our grief in quiet stillness? And what if you were to stand next to me, so that we could look, together, at our brokenness? What if we stopped and felt the full weight of snow on branches in winter?
And then—what if, in the quiet of that pause, we were to suddenly notice our sun…
Wait—do you see it too? There! Isn’t it amazing? The sunlight warming patches of emerging green grass. The shimmer of water rippling across the pond that had been frozen solid. The first quiet hints of something shifting.
At Cranaleith, we honor all that is broken, and together, we make space for what is being made new. Here in the quiet of Cranaleith, you, too, are invited to pause for a moment. Slow down. Listen deeply. Pay attention.
It is the promise of our Lenten season: to watch for what is becoming.
In Peace and Mercy,
Dawn L. Hayward
Executive Director
