One day it was fall, the next morning we awoke to winter. A world of brown suddenly transformed to a world of white. Just like that.
My oldest daughter came walking out of her bedroom, eyes sparkling. “It’s SNOWTIME, Mommy!!!”
My two-year-old, upon being lifted up to a window so she could see, exclaimed in wide-eyed, sincere amazement, “Oh. My. Goodness.”
It was wonderful.
I love how every year the beauty of winter manages to take me by surprise, evoking the same kind of childish wonder in my soul that I saw on my children’s faces.
I could hardly wait until later, when I was finally able to slip on my skis and go out into it. I glided over the unbroken surface, daring to cut a crisp twin track through the artful riffles of drifting snow. The evening star winked at me in the lavender sky above the snowy pines, and the lake, still unfrozen, glimmered pale gold and pink—and silently I breathed thanks for the glory of a new season.
And for something else, too, because there were two things to be thankful for, really. The pure clean snow, yes—but, even more, how it symbolized the state of my heart.
“…though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.“ (Isaiah 1:18)
Once upon a time, my heart was stained with sin, glaring crimson as the most brilliant maples of autumn—but then came the day I gave it all to Christ, and the transformation was just as sudden and wonderful as this overnight advent of winter.
There’s nothing quite like seeing the beauty of nature through the wonder-filled eyes of a child…
I’m sitting here, gazing out the window, watching lazy flakes drift to the ground, gently highlighting the forms of dark spruce across the field. It seems strange that they’re forecasting temperatures above freezing for the next couple weeks, which means our world of white may soon be turning to soggy brown. But it’s March, after all, that indecisive in-between month that (where I live) is never quite winter, never quite spring.
Every so often, usually when I’m in the middle of making supper at the close of a sunny winter day, my eye is drawn out the window to a sudden illumination in the east.
It’s a picture of who I am, who any of us are, if we are in Christ.
If you’ve ever tried photographing wildlife, you will understand what I mean when I say that unless your goal is to capture the animal as part of a larger scene, it’s pretty much a waste of time without a telephoto lens. Without one, animals usually scare off before you can get close enough to compose a decent shot. And that’s why I’ve felt sorely crippled photographically ever since my telephoto lens quit working two years ago.
I clicked the lens into place before I got out of the car, and checked my camera settings, trying to guess accurately. Past experience with swans has taught me to be ready to snap quickly; they tend to be pretty wary of humans. I didn’t think this one would be flying away (it seems that an injured wing prevented it from leaving with the rest of it’s group in the fall), but I still didn’t want it to go paddling off in alarm and leave the great lighting and position it was currently in.
It felt like I had been given new eyes.
There are certain elements of the forest that stand out more in the winter than they do in the summer—and the bare branches and trunks of the trees are certainly one of them.
I think this is such a magnificent picture of the transformation Christ works in our lives. He gently, but steadily, peels back the layers of sin and selfishness wrapped around our hearts, time after time bringing to light something altogether new, each time a little better than the last, as we grow and stretch and become more and more like Him.
The wind comes out after a snowstorm—and what results is a whole landscape of constantly shifting patterns and intricate designs highlighted beautifully by the light and shadow of a sunny day.
The invisible wind and it’s artistic work, reminds me of this passage where Jesus Himself pictures from nature the most wonderful transformation ever to happen to man:
I’ve read the articles on the science of forcing your Christmas cactus to bloom in time for Christmas. A simple schedule of watering and then purposely neglecting to do so within certain time frames will, they tell me, insure that it buds right on time. I’ve considered doing this (hence the fact that I was reading the articles in the first place), but since making sure my houseplants actually get watered at all seems to be enough of a challenge at this point in my life, I’ve never quite gotten around to it.
If you’ve ever stood on the shore of Lake Superior on a summer day, you know the feeling. Waves crashing on the rocks at your feet, sending spray high into the air, vast expanse of water stretching to meet the sky on the horizon. It’s big; you’re small. It’s a magnificent feeling.
The trail was very icy, so we didn’t go far. Instead we went along cautiously until we found a spot with a good view, and then stood still to take in the magnificence of it all. I couldn’t help thinking of Psalm 93 as I watched to the blue-gray waves crash on the rocks below us.
…The seas have lifted up, LORD, the seas have lifted up their voice; the seas have lifted up their pounding waves…
…Mightier than the thunder of the great waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea– the LORD on high is mighty. Your statutes, LORD, stand firm; holiness adorns your house for endless days.” (Psalm 93)
We just returned from a trip to the Sawtooth Mountains on the north shore of Lake Superior. For much of our visit there, the peaks around us were veiled in fog or falling snow, but on the eve of our arrival, I was granted this sweeping vista with a clear view of craggy Moose Mountain silhouetted against the setting sun.
The amazing thing is that we serve a God whose eternal unchanging-ness supersedes the mountains. Even if these seemingly immovable peaks were to unexpectedly blow up and slide into the depths of Lake Superior, He would still be God. He is the only thing that we can truly count on to never change.
Rejoicing Hills 