Dear Reader,

Yesterday’s blizzard was something else — I hope you had a safe, warm place to weather it.

I just blew in from digging out the entrance to our pig shelter and feeding everyone; mountains of snow now sit between us and all our buildings. As I type this, I can hear the skid loader running as Benj moves the snow one scoop at a time, creating pathways so we can reach the outbuildings and the animals without climbing drifts.

Last night the wind was so strong that I couldn’t even see the barn from our front door. Stepping outside to milk in that dark and wind, I felt very small and very exposed — a tiny moving thing in a very big storm.

And then I remembered I am held… and the fear melted away into resolve.

Because the truth is this: none of it truly rests on me.

Every task ahead of me, everything I have, everything I "own", everything I do or say rests in God and in His loving plan. I am held. We are held.

And yet — there is that familiar sense of overwhelm I return to sometimes — the kind that comes when life feels very public, very visible, and very much like it’s resting on your shoulders.

When I feel that way, I often return to a memory from when I was twelve years old. I had a daily paper route for the New Ulm Journal and did deliveries from my bike at 5:00 a.m., even on cold, snowy mornings. I can still hear the crunch of the snow beneath my tires, still feel my frozen cheeks and my warm body working hard inside layers of winter gear. (Have you ever ridden a bike in snowpants? Swish swish swish.)

On one stretch of my route I looked up and saw a bright star shining in the dark sky. A cloud behind it glowed blue and its shape reminded me of a hand reaching out.

I remember thinking how nice it would be to just curl up right there — safe in God’s hand — and I felt peace. Held.

I come back to that moment often. When life feels loud (like kids quarreling over a board game last night). When responsibility feels heavy (so many loved ones to pray for; land and animals to care for). When I remember how small I am in the vastness of creation — and how deeply cared for.

Work still needs to be done, even in the storm. And the snow, like all hard seasons, will melt in time.

What remains are the people. You. The conversations, the encouragement, the shared values, the strength I witness again and again in this community. You inspire me more than I can put into words. It is humbling. Thank you.

My prayer for you this week is that you feel held. Seen. Loved. Valuable. That you know you can slow down, breathe, and rest — even for a moment — in the care of your Heavenly Father.

With gratitude,
Leah

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