It will not snow.
I need snow. It’s sort of like one of those mermaid movies where the mermaid (who has recently turned into a human, obviously), hasn’t been around water recently, so her gills have started to reappear, except instead of being iridescent green, they’re now a sort of sickish gray.
My snow gills are gray.
We’ve had a few flurries, and I heard a rumor that there was actual snow in downtown Chicago last week, but I’ve seen almost nothing in the suburbs.
There is a growing flock of Canada geese who, instead of continuing south like reasonable birds, are taking over the parking lot at work. They think they’ve found their tropical paradise.
I went Christmas shopping on Michigan Avenue last Saturday, and I did not need a coat.
I’ve been watching the weather reports, and we’ve had a few snow storms predicted, but nothing’s materialized.
I’m starting to get anxious.
You know how after the Flood, God sent a rainbow as a promise that he’d never destroy the world that way again? Snow is sort of my rainbow. Give me a minute: I know I’m not making meteorological sense.
I’ve always loved snow. I was always happy to see it, no matter what time of year it happened to fall. But it wasn’t until a few years ago that it became as important to me as it is now.
It was my senior year at Moody, and I think I had just done badly on a test. I know that’s not really the end of the world, but I was miserable. I felt like I had wasted opportunities and time and like God had given me this gift of an education and I had squandered it. I left class, and instead of heading back to work at the yearbook office, I left campus. It had started to snow that morning, and there were already a few inches on the ground. I was wearing little fabric shoes and my feet were soaked almost immediately, but I had to walk.
I walked faster and faster, and as I walked I counted every mistake I had made in the past four years. Every missed opportunity and broken friendship and wasted moment. The faster I walked, the more mistakes I could remember. I was overwhelmed.
The snowflakes were huge. Nickel-sized. When I stood still, I could watch the snow on the ground get deeper. I was used to the noise of the city, the sounds of the traffic and people. But with that much snow, all those sounds were muffled. It was 2pm on a weekday in Chicago, and the whole city was silent. Everything, the wrought iron fences, the street lamps, the buildings, was covered in snow.
That was when I realized that if God could silence and transform a whole city with just a little frozen water, then there was nothing that I could do that he couldn’t make beautiful by covering it with a layer of redemption.
I could breathe again. I watched the snow for a few more minutes, then I went inside and put on dry socks.
Snow is my rainbow and my ebenezer and my reminder of what the Gospel means.
I am tired. And I could use a refresher course on redemption. And I would really like it if it would snow.