The Winter
by Stephanie Mathews
“Because we have eyes to see,” Nina had said, her voice soft but firm, “and ears to hear, a mind to understand. The darkest of days and the coldest of nights still can’t hide the beauty of life and the goodness from which it was made. Just look closely and choose to see it and accept that He, our Creator, has set eternity in our hearts. That is why, on the darkest and coldest of days, there are still glimmers of hope and whispers of love.”
Nina always spoke like poetry. Back then, I couldn’t stand it. It felt pretentious, and her optimism grated on my nerves. But now that she’s gone, I’d give anything to hear her words again. To hear a voice that spoke poetry and not grumbles.
The winter had come early and stayed late. It was the winter Nina died, the winter I thought would never end. I kept thinking the world was ending — maybe God had finally grown tired of His creation and abandoned us. I couldn’t see the point of anything anymore, especially not the world, with its endless days of gray skies and biting cold.
A part of me looked forward to the end because it meant an end to the suffering, an end to the misery. I hadn’t listened to Nina’s words, hadn’t let them sink in. I didn’t want to believe in hope, and yet, her peace had always made me wonder if there really was something more, something to hold onto.
She was never bothered by the endless winter. When the cold wind howled through the cracks in the walls, she ignored it and kept going about whatever she was doing. It irritated me sometimes, and I would lash out, try to provoke her, but the anger never came. What frustrated me more was that I think I caused her sadness, though she never spoke about it.
“You need faith,” Nina told me once, after I yelled at her over something trivial.
“Sure,” I said, scoffing. “Just believe in a warm, fuzzy feeling because I’ve been told to.”
“No, it’s not a feeling,” she replied gently. “It’s trust. I trust that God created this world, created me, and created everything. My faith is rooted in that trust, and I believe He will save me. My body may suffer, but my soul will endure. And I will live in paradise. This world is cursed, yes, but He offers a way out and I’ll endure, because God endured for me.”
Her words did always comfort me. I hated to admit it, but they did. I wasn’t sure if I believed them, but I wanted to. That was the truth of it. I wanted to believe.
After she died, I was devastated. Nina was the only person I’d ever known who truly cared and the only one brave enough to speak truth to me, and not just to me — Nina spoke of it to everyone. She believed that all people were created and made in the Creator’s image. The truth was for everyone.
After she was gone, I was consumed with anger. I wanted to scream at her God, tell Him how cruel He was to take her away from me. I wanted to scream at the cold, at the emptiness, at the endless winter. I wanted the suffering to end, even if it meant the world would end with it, but as I prepared her body for the funeral pyre and looked upon her lifeless form, I saw peace in her face — something I had never seen in any other corpse. Every other body I’d seen had looked twisted, frozen in agony, but Nina … she was at peace. I closed my eyes, fighting the tears that came. I knew her soul was at rest, in a place where the winter could never reach.
Maybe she really was in that paradise she often spoke of. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Were her words really based on a truth? Was there really a plan for restoration and an end to this awful winter that seemed would never end?
A week after Nina’s death, I was cleaning out her room when I found her journal. My hands shook as I opened it. I hadn’t expected to find it, but as soon as I saw the pages, I felt a rush of longing. I missed her. I missed her voice, her calm, her belief. I wanted to hear her speak again, even if it was just through these words.
I began to read.
“The sun will shine again. Flowers will sprout from the earth. Buds on trees will open and bloom. The prophecy told of an end to the long winter. If you look, you will see the signs that the barren season is ending. You can see them if you will only look. The book spoke of these wonderful truths and more.”
A book? But Nina’s cottage had no books. We had no books. I knew she must have read this book when she was a child, from the Finneys — the elderly couple who had raised her after her parents died. Nina had often spoken of them with love, but I had never visited. I never saw the point. But now, I had no choice. I needed to see this book, to look at the words myself.
The wind howled as I stepped outside, the cold cutting through my thin coat. My feet crunched in the snow, each step heavier than the last. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to knock on strangers’ doors, people I had avoided all my life. I didn’t want to face people like me, people who lived without hope.
The Finneys lived near, though I wasn’t sure where exactly. There were only a handful of cottages near ours. I never visited any of them with Nina, but now I would.
I met Nina after my parents had abandoned me for good. I was old enough to take care of myself now, they told me, so they sent me on my way. Nina was returning from visiting the Finney’s and saw me. She invited me in for supper, and I never left.
The world was dangerous and scary. Nina became my security blanket, and I had no desire to know anyone else.
The first cottage I came to was small, dark, its roof sagging under the weight of the snow. No smoke curled from the chimney, so I knew it was empty. I almost turned back then. The cold, both in the world and in my soul, seemed unbearable. But I pressed on.
The second cottage, a bit larger, looked like it might be lived in. I knocked.
A woman opened the door. Her face was hard and cold, her eyes narrowed.
“Yes? What do you want?”
“I — I’m looking, no, wondering if you knew a girl named Nina. Did you know her?”
Her reply came quick. “No.” And with that, she started to close the door.
“What about the prophecy? The end of winter and the restoration of life?” My words spilled out, unbidden.
She stopped, eyes flashing with derision. “That’s a fairy tale, child. A story for the weak and foolish. Does it look like winter will end? Does it? No. We’re born, we suffer, and we die. None of it matters.”
The door slammed in my face. Her words stung. Not because of her hopelessness, but because they reminded me of my own. They reminded me of the way I used to think.
I walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last. Her words echoed in my mind, but so did Nina’s. Look. Choose to see. Trust.
The third cottage was different. I could hear soft singing from within. The smoke from the chimney, the glow from the windows, and the evergreen wreath on the door — it all felt … alive. I knocked.
The singing stopped.
I knocked again.
The door opened to reveal a very old man, his face weathered but kind, and an old woman who smiled warmly.
“Come in, out of the cold,” the man said, his voice rich with warmth.
“You’re here about Nina, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her tone gentle.
I nodded, startled. “Yes. I am.”
They ushered me in, and I sat by the fire, warming myself with the tea they gave me. The Finneys had heard the news of Nina’s death. They had wanted to visit but hadn’t dared venture out in the snow.
As I listened to them talk, my heart softened. The pain of the cold, the pain of Nina’s absence, started to ease. It wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t so sharp. They spoke of Nina with love, with a joy, and I could almost hear her voice in their words.
“Nina is at peace now,” Mrs. Finney said, her eyes bright with a kind of joy. “She no longer has to suffer. We miss her, but I rejoice in knowing she has returned home.”
I could only nod, my throat tight with emotion.
“Do you know the Truth?” Mr. Finney asked, his gaze steady.
Nina had spoken of this often. I had always shrugged it off. But now, I wasn’t sure anymore.
“I’ve heard her words,” I said quietly. “But I didn’t believe them. I wasn’t ready to listen.”
“There’s no shame in being honest,” Mr. Finney said, leaning forward. “But are you ready now?”
I hesitated. Fear gripped me. Fear of change, of what it might mean. But as I sat in there feeling surrounded by the love they shared, I realized that I needed to know more.
“The prophecy,” Mrs. Finney continued, “is not just about the seasons. It’s about the end of this cursed world. It’s about the restoration of everything. It’s about trust — trusting the One who made the world and trusting His plan.”
I looked at them, searching their faces for any hint of doubt, but found none.
“How can you be sure it’s all true?” I asked, my voice shaking.
They smiled at each other, a quiet understanding passing between them. Mrs. Finney reached out and took my hand.
“Ask,” she said simply.
“See and hear,” Mr. Finney added, as he reached for a book from the table and handed it to me. It was plain, no markings, but I knew what it was. It was the book Nina had spoken of.
“The Book of Truth,” I whispered.
I left their cottage later, the book tucked beneath my arm, a promise to read, to ask, to hear, and to see. I promised to return.
As I walked home, the wind no longer seemed so cold.
About the Author
Stephanie Mathews is a part-time librarian, avid reader, published author, and homeschool mom. She enjoys spending time with her husband, daughter, and dog. Together they enjoy walks, camping, stargazing, and bird watching — any activity outside, along with staying home watching movies.
She has two poetry collections published, articles in Creation Illustrated, and stories in Pure in Heart magazine.
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