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)
