Snow

Her favorite seasons were Spring and Autumn, but she found beauty and joy in the snow. She always grazed remnants of the the freshly fallen flakes and made delicious snow ice cream for us to enjoy.
I can still taste Grandma's snow ice cream.

Today you played in the snow with your Grammy and she made snow ice cream. Your little brother was wrapped up like a little bear coming out of hibernation (in the words of Grauntie D). Your uncles made a snowman and you took a picture with your cousin, "Daddeus."

You probably won't remember your first snow just like you probably won't remember your first move. That long 10 hour drive from Alabama to North Carolina. After lots of purging and selling daddy's boat and four wheeler (to name a few toys), we loaded the uhaul and moved away from family, friends, and the familiar...downsizing from a 1600 sq. ft. house to a 700 sq. ft. apartment. We moved to an old cotton mill in Wake Forest. It was a Season of Simplicity. Your daddy had started the gruesome process of getting his Ph.D. and we were in a beautiful loft apartment on the third floor with colossal windows and twenty foot ceilings. Trust me , it sounds more romantic than it was. (One day I'll tell you about the time you pooped on me in a job interview - long story - and how I had to leave you one Saturday to go to work in the snow with chronic morning sickness - a gift from your brother). But we learned so many lifelong lessons in those few months and met so many people who touched our lives forever. Sometimes God closes one door and opens another, and sometimes He closes one door and opens more than you can go through. (But that's another story for another day...)

One of our favorite memories of that place was your first snow. When the first flakes started to fall we woke you up and carried you outside in the dark to see the "snow". You were mesmerized as the flakes fell softly on your little nose.

Today I remember one particular snowy Sunday morning. I was wrestling you on the changing table, dressing you for church in a frantic hurry when my eye suddenly caught a glimpse of something beautiful. Against the backdrop of complete white was a solitary, bright, red cardinal and a still, small voice whispering,
Slow down.
Be Still.
And Know
That I
Am God.
And I realized that He isn't in the strong wind or the earthquake or fire - but in the soft whispers and gentle breeze. In the commonplace, everyday, monotonous, ordinary, tedious, tiresome...moments and routines. The humdrum. In moments of peeling carrots and changing diapers.

I always find Him there.

And He is always waiting.

We are often forced to slow down and bear simplicity only when the storms hit. What is frustration to an adult is an opportunity for play to a child. I find the same childlike peace in the aftermath of a hurricane or when driven inside on a snowy day.

In the barrenness of winter time.

David Rensberger writes, "In winter, when the world is simplified, the subtler and humbler beauties can appear to us...red holly berries, or rose hips on their dry canes..Even a blue jay stands out. The simplicity and starkness of a winter scene bring to our attention creatures we overlook in other seasons. The beauty of such small humble things is an especially important expression of holiness for us, who are so easily impressed by size and ostentation."

So I pray for eyes to see. The beauty of red against white. His blood for our sins. "Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow. Though they be as crimson they shall be as wool."

Our family theme for for this year is joy in simplicity. And you remind me of this. When you say,"pray mama" (when I've given you some cheerios and forgot to pray) or..."sit mama" (when I'm busy and need to stand) or..."dance mama" (when I'm tired and want to sit). When you remind me to slow down and stop and smell the roses. {Literally. Every. single. dandelion.} When you have so much awe for God's creation. You soften my heart.

And I want to you to remind me of this when I am in too much of a hurry to see the beauty of stillness. To see the beauty of you. Because I want the eyes of Mary, but so often I have the eyes of Martha.

This morning you woke to see if the snow was still there. Your fine blond hair disheveled from sleep. It was a sweet reminder.

Today I am thankful for the joy of snow. Today I am thankful for you, my sweet girl.