There are words in Scripture that glow quietly until the Spirit invites us to look closer — words that carry far more weight than their English translations suggest. Words that, once understood in their original language and context, feel alive with purpose.

Chayil is one of those words.

Once you understand what essential oils are — and what resins are — the next question becomes unavoidable: How do we decide which to use?

Long before essential oils were bottled, branded, and marketed, the ancient world relied on something far older and far more enduring: resins.

For the last decade, essential oils have occupied an unusual and often contradictory place in modern wellness. They have been praised as miracle cures, dismissed as dangerous irritants, marketed as lifestyle necessities, and feared as endocrine disruptors — sometimes all at once. The result is widespread confusion.

If you had told me a few years ago that I’d be rendering beef suet in my kitchen, triple-filtering it, and preparing to incorporate it into a skincare product… I probably would have smiled politely and thought, “Absolutely not.”

I was deeply, sincerely, firmly anti-tallow.

For as long as people have endured long, cold winters, they have turned to herbs to strengthen and sustain them. Before refrigeration, before imported produce, before shelves lined with supplements and cold remedies, families relied on what they could grow, gather, preserve, and pass down. Winter was not a season to “push through,” but a season to prepare for — physically, practically, and rhythmically.

I have always been a winter girl. Not in a novelty sense, not in the way people say they love snow while secretly counting the days until it melts, but in a deep, quiet way that feels like recognition. Winter feels familiar to me. It feels like home. There is something about the way the world slows, the way sound softens, the way light behaves differently when it reflects off snow instead of soil, that settles me in a way no other season does.

Humanity has always cared for the skin. Long before modern beauty aisles, before chemists emulsified water and oil into lotions, before factories manufactured creams by the thousands, skincare was simple. It was slow. It was sacred.

Herbal syrups are one of the most beloved, nostalgic, and approachable ways to welcome plant medicine into the home. Sweet, soothing, and deeply comforting, they bridge the gap between remedy and nourishment — the kind of preparation that feels like a treat, yet carries generations of old-world wisdom. Even children instinctively love syrups, which says something about their gentleness and ease.

One of the most beautiful things about herbal medicine is how plants work together. Each herb carries its own gifts — the calming touch of chamomile, the brightness of lemon balm, the earthy strength of dandelion. On their own, these herbs are powerful. But when they’re paired with others that complement or balance their actions, something remarkable happens. They begin to weave a kind of harmony, a relationship that brings out the best in each plant.

If you open any family medicine chest, there’s almost always a small tin or jar tucked away — something meant for life’s little scrapes and stings. Maybe it’s rubbed onto chapped knuckles in winter, or smoothed across a child’s knee after a tumble. These humble balms have a way of weaving themselves into our stories. They’ve been part of human care for as long as we’ve needed comfort and healing.

For thousands of years, people have turned to the plants around them for medicine, beauty, and nourishment. One of the simplest ways they did this was by steeping herbs in oil — a practice that appears in ancient Egyptian papyri, Greek medical texts, and folk traditions across nearly every culture.¹ These oils preserved the life of the plant long after harvest and provided a gentle, skin-loving way to apply herbal medicine.

A few years ago, while on my Quest with Fellowship of the Sword, I was asked a simple question: “What season are you in right now?”

When cold season hits, it feels like it’s only a matter of time before the sniffles, scratchy throats, or nagging coughs start making their way through the house. For years now, herbs have been my first line of defense — long before kids were in the picture. My wellness journey started during our fertility years, when I learned to support my body in a gentler, more holistic way.

When most people think of herbs, the first image that comes to mind is a warm cup of tea — familiar, soothing, and simple. But in herbalism, “tea” is only one of several ways we prepare plants with water, and each method draws out something entirely different.

If you’ve been around herbs for any length of time, you’ve probably asked (or been asked): “What exactly is a tincture?”

The truth is, there isn’t a single answer. Herbs are beautifully complex, and each preparation brings out a different part of the plant’s wisdom. Some methods are gentle and nourishing, others are strong and concentrated, and some are all about making the medicine more enjoyable to take.

Fall has always felt to me like an invitation — to slow down, to breathe deeper, to nourish our bodies and spirits with small, intentional comforts.

It’s a question that lingers quietly in the back of many minds: Do herbs really work? Are they simply remnants of folk tradition and old wives’ tales, or do they actually bring balance and support to the body in tangible ways?

If you spend any time outdoors in the summer, you know the drill: mosquitoes, bee stings, scratches from gardening, maybe even a sting from brushing against nettles. These little nuisances can put a damper on warm-weather fun, but they don’t have to. With a few simple herbs and remedies, you can care for your skin naturally — often with plants you can grow yourself or find just outside your door.