The snow fell during the night. I wasn’t awake to see its arrival, so it surprised me when I opened the back door this morning to let Sam (the dog) out.
It surprised me, even though I knew snow had been forecast. It surprised me, because it smelled like spring when I walked to my parked car after work yesterday. It felt like spring as I drove home, the thermometer on the dashboard moving between 40 and 50 degrees in its measurement of the outside temperature. I drove past fields prepared for planting and luxuriated in not just the promise—but the fulfillment—of spring’s arrival.
Something changed in the night, though, so I stood in the doorway looking out on another winter’s day.
Driving Logan to school, we were both startled awake by the “blueness” of the sky. It was as though we had never seen such a vivid blue hovering above us. Logan said it was as though Winter and Spring were fighting for control and today was a draw. As they existed together in the very same day, the blue in the sky was made striking by the gray on the horizon. “What a great metaphor,” Logan exclaimed, praising his own linguistic imagination.
I guess his artful observations rubbed off on me. Driving back home, I noticed (as I have so very many times before) snow falling from the branches of trees lining the road. Not every tree, curiously, but some trees. Random trees. The snowfall that came by surprise during the night had long ended, but this second snowfall was just beginning.
Precipitated by what?
Wind? Is so, then why not snow falling for a second time from every snow-covered branch?
Weight? Could some branches simply not hold—for one moment longer—the burden of all that snow resting on them?
Wonder? Were some of those branches designed for delight, releasing the snow from their grasp so as to be surprised (again) by the beauty of a snowfall?
I’ll admit. That third question did not enter my mind until just now. I’m inclined to think of snowfall as anything other than delightful. In my linguistic imagination, the snow was serving as a metaphor for all those assaults on our sense of wholeness and wellbeing that take us by surprise. The second snowfall, then, symbolized the repercussions of such sorrows—those moments of grief that fall from our closed eyes when we least expect them, those moments that take us right back to our deepest wounds.
Sometimes there’s not even a hint of a breeze when suddenly that second snowfall begins. I find it maddening. Haven’t I worked through this already? Haven’t I healed? Why is this still hard? Why is this still surprising? I’m not much of a linear thinker, but I find myself yearning for a linear path. Instead, the trail is constantly winding back on itself, second snowfalls falling to the ground and obsuring the route for a time. And I’m weary. Where is Spring already?
But what if snow, even in March, is beautiful? And what if that second snowfall is even more wondrous than the first? What if the moments of profound delight in our lives are just as likely to return and take us by surprise?
And what if those second snowfalls—those moments of wonder and wholehearted joy—leave us with bare branches raised to the bluest sky in gratitude, hands emptied and open to receive the gifts of each new day?
What a great metaphor!
God of second snowfalls, sustain us in our sorrows AND surprise us with wonder. The path is not linear, but every step is taken with you at our side. And for this, we thank and praise you. Amen.
From wrestling with God to a spiritual draw, my off beaten path seems illustrated in "real time" through your writings! Blessings!! ❤❤
Love it!