As I write this, the view out my window is a symphony of white and gray. The snow that was falling has stopped, but the skies have not cleared. The roads are clear, however, and traffic continues to move, while the water in Lake Michigan — today a bluish gray, at least out to the point where white ice and snow float on the water, heaves slowly up and down, as though even the waves are tired. This is the time of year that wears longest to me. The glory of Christmas, the festivities of New Year’s are over. The days are getting longer, but that just leaves more hours for the cloudy skies to illuminate the slush and the dingy snow piled up in parking lots. Springtime, with its golden greens and smell of sun-warmed earth, still seems a long, long way away. Even Lent, a season of penance and time in the desert, which brings a promise of coming salvation, has not yet started. This is where the church, I think, gets it right, when so much of the culture gets it wrong. This is still the Christmas season, never mind that you won’t find anything about Christmas in a store until, say, next September. Already, it’s all about Valentine’s Day, a feast of misbegotten pressure on everyone from children to single adults to married couples. Instead of thinking about who should get a Valentine card and who shouldn’t, can we just keep Christmas a little longer? Not the Christmas of presents and wrapping paper, and by all means, take down the tree before it becomes a fire hazard. But let’s keep the thought of that little baby born on Christmas in our hearts, and let him grow there. This time — this quiet time of year, when plants seem dormant but are gathering their strength for the coming spring — this is the time Mary would have stayed with the baby, feeding and caring for him and helping him thrive. We need to do the same thing for that newborn baby, come to remind us that God became human — not because he had to, but because he loved us. He came as a baby, weak and vulnerable, and it is up to us to make sure he thrives and grows in the quiet of the year.