I woke to snow falling this morning. Again. Flakes were almost indiscernible in the gray before light, calling to mind a mist or fog. Tiny drops falling fast and straight. Tiny snow, barely knitting together a blanket to cover the old, ice-capped drifts, the old accumulation. But as the grayness slid to morning, the snow mist changed. From fast falling to gentle swirling, from drops to flakes, And the blanket grew deeper, covering more, softening edges and muffling the world.
Last week, there were domed caps of ice, like skullcaps, on the hills and mounds outside my window. I have never lived in a place that stays frozen for so long, where the snow doesn’t melt between fallings.
Yesterday was the coldest day of the year, so far. New snow had fallen during the darkness of night and in the frigid sunlight, it lay like a diamond veil over the landscape. An unsullied bride, a sparkling treasure, crisp and white and clean.
Today, more snow. And wind. Arctic temperatures, the news reports.
There is beauty in this landscape. Harsh and tender. My thoughts wander from what I see to what is, from literal to figurative. I don’t love the snow, but I am fascinated by what I learn from it.
Snow covers. It makes new. It softens rough edges. It redeems the brown landscape of winter, it awakens beauty. I understand this. Jesus Christ is snow.
Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come:
The old has gone, the new is here!
2 Corinthians 5:17 (NIV)
Wind sculpts. Like a potter with clay. It drives the snow into drifts, deep places and shelters. It tears the snow from the ground, leaving ragged scars of dirt and broken grass. It creates swirled landscapes of ridges and dunes, terrible and beautiful. I understand this, too. God is wind.
Yet you, Lord, are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand.
Isaiah 64:8 (NIV)