The meadow behind our home is a wonderland of down-covered grasses, branches muted by sleeping silver. My boys still dream upstairs, the house is quiet. So I pull on the long boots and go out to stand in the stuff. There is a magic in March snow—the way it quiets a slow-stirring earth. Just yesterday I noticed that the tops of the Pussy Willow tree were beginning to bud and now that gentle awakening is stilled again.
The snow birds are back this morning–enjoying a frolic in that white stuff that fell over a layer of ice overnight. A trio of them perch in the naked forsythia bush; feathery baubles fluffed out against the cold.
I sit with my morning coffee and watch ornitho-antics. The still falling snow does not deter their play…they flit to and fro with sudden graceful movements as if dangled from invisible wire–an infant’s mobile orchestrated by invisible puppeteer.
I am that infant.
I watch, bedazzled as this scene plays out against winter-white.
I am thinking about seasons. This surprise-snow reminds me of my Father. How He likes to astonish, fill me with wonder. The seasons He orchestrates for me are not predictable. They do not come with a mark on the calendar. They are sprinkled down from heaven in the dark of night like this dusting before my eyes this morning.
The weather men spoke caution all day yesterday and we went to bed to the soft patter of an icy rain. When I opened my eyes to morning light I heard the snow in the silence. The world unspeaking, muted by an insulating mantle of purity. As we prepare our hearts to enter into Lent, it seems only fitting.
And so, I am quieted.
There is no shame in this silence, only a gentle hand cupping my face. I am still as the coverlet falls over me. There is only relief. No striving, no pushing, no struggle against injustice.
Just blessed peace.