Last night I was convinced that today would be a snow day. I am fully aware that this belief was not founded on anything logical. It didn’t snow yesterday, it wasn’t supposed to snow much last night, and I teach at a university, so you don’t really get snow days to begin with.
But snow day hope is a hard thing to kill.
So instead of packing my lunch, laying out my clothes, and going to bed at a decent hour… I stayed up watching TV till 2 am. 2 AM. I blame it on James being out of town and taking all sense of reason with him. To top it all off, I made the mistake of staying up to finish a season of Revenge, which meant I was then wayyyyyy too scared/angry/emotionally keyed up to fall asleep.
“You wake up on a winter morning and pull up the shade, and what lay there the evening before is no longer there–the sodden gray yard, the dog droppings, the tire tracks in the frozen mud, the broken lawn chair you forgot to take in last fall. All this has disappeared overnight, and what you look out on is not the snow of Narnia but the snow of home, which is no less shimmering and white as it falls. The earth is covered with it, and it is falling still in silence so deep that you can hear its silence. It is snow to be shoveled, to make driving even worse than usual, snow to be joked about and cursed at, but unless the child in you is entirely dead, it is snow, too, that can make the heart beat faster when it catches you by surprise that way, before your defenses are up. It is snow that can awaken memories of things more wonderful than anything you ever knew or dreamed.” — Frederick Buechner, Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale
If it’s been awhile, go find a single snowflake and look at it. Unless the child in you is entirely dead, you will wonder. Wonder is the very best response when faced with individual snowflakes.