About the photos: What do oak trees and great grandparents have in common? They’re both in Minnesota and not on Prince of Wales Island. Also, they both symbolize wisdom, resilience and longevity.
We lost one grandparent last year, so we treasured our recent time spent with the three that remain all the more. I never knew my great-grandparents. Someday my kids will realize how blessed they are, but for now they’re just busy soaking in the stories, games and cooking lessons.
What I’ve been thinking about this week: “Sojourn in this land, and I will be with thee and will bless thee. For unto thee and unto thy seed I will give all these countries, and I will perform the oath which I swore unto Abraham thy father. And I will make thy seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give unto thy seed all these countries; and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed, because Abraham obeyed My voice, and kept My charge, My commandments, My statutes, and My laws.” (Genesis 26:3-5)
Wonderful to think that because of that one line “in thy seed [Jesus!] shall all the nations of the earth be blessed” and also because of what Paul later wrote: “And if you are Christ’s, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.” (Galations 3:29) —even I, now thousands of years and on the other side of the world away, have a part in that blessing!
P.S. I took pictures for this project, but had limited internet while we were traveling and was unable to post them. I’ll be playing catch-up for just a little while, then resume weekly posting thereafter! Also, normally I will be posting one photo per week, but since we were traveling and I took more pictures than usual, you get a few bonus shots!
If you’re new here, this is part of my Project 52, in which I commit to taking and posting a photo per week for the duration of 2022, along with sharing a favorite verse and/or thoughts gleaned as I also read through the Bible in a year. I’d love to hear what stood out to you in your personal Bible reading this week in the comments!
Outside, on this sub-zero February day, a bitter wind is kicking billows of icy particles high into the sky and blasting them across the fields. 
It’s actually a pretty magnificent picture of what we Christ-followers are supposed to look, and (frankly!) smell like.
“Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.” (Matthew 1:23)
In some places in the country, I’m seeing pictures of blossoming peach orchards, daffodils and greening grass. On the first day of spring here, it snowed in the morning—and then a bitter wind spent the rest of the day kicking all that snow up into the air in great billowing clouds, forcing us to plow the driveway due to drifting. If you live here, too, you’re not surprised or alarmed. It’s a typical Minnesota weather move.
Much as we’d sometimes like it to be, spring just isn’t a day on the calendar for us. It’s no short, sweet announcement. Instead, it’s a slow thing, that creeps up, teases, eludes. But still, watching spring unfold, painfully slow but sure, gives me hope—which is something we all need a little bit more of right now.
W
And not-so-exciting old things—
And not so fun new things—
“
Farewell to watching the snow banks mount to the window sills and the thermometer drop out of sight,
Farewell to the 
Farewell to rainbow sun dogs,
Farewell to conjuring up baking projects just for the sake of making the kitchen cozy,
Farewell to the best and longest ski season in years,
Farewell to the long dark of winter evenings,
Farewell to winter.
At the top of the sledding hill, the soft whir of tiny wings and the pleasant songs of chickadees surrounded me. They were dancing among the slender tree branches, up above my head against the deep blue of the afternoon sky, taking turns bobbing in and out of the dangling feeder.The rust-breasted nuthatch didn’t stir from his post on a square of suet as well-bundled sledders shouted their way down the hill, not even when I dared peek around the tree trunk to get a better look at him. In fact, he turned out to be a bit of a show off. Bet you can’t hang upside down while eating a chunk of lard. 
He looked at me skeptically, so I figured I’d better prove my point. I left him and his feathered friends to their feast, and down I went, small daughter tucked securely between my knees, flying over the bumps on the snowy track in the direction of the cattails. Down at the bottom of the hill, where the sun was laying long shadows across the river bed, there was an explosion of powder as the sled hit previously un-excavated snow. I shouted in triumph. My daughter, with a surprise face full of powder puff snow, was not so impressed. There were tears, then sniffles, then, to my relief, giggles as a generous sled ride up the hill was offered as recompense.
As I paused briefly to catch my breath, I noted that the birds were still bobbing and flitting in and out of the swinging feeders at the top of the hill. In the midst of this long, hard winter, they were obviously grateful for kindness of these and other thoughtful neighbors that make their daily food search easier. I am grateful to the same neighbors for letting us take over their steep back yard for an afternoon. Also grateful for the warmth exertion supplies, coupled with the sunshine that made it seem not quite as cold as the thermometer read.
At the top, I gave my older daughter a hearty push for a solo trip down the hill, then opened the screen door for Miss Purple Mittens to head happily indoors to hot chocolate. (Bless you, Martie, for that!) I deliberated over which child to follow—but then a large hairy woodpecker swooped in and made my decision easy. Perhaps the only thing quite fascinating enough to distract me from sledding or a good hot drink is a compelling photo opportunity.
When I was a young, aspiring baker, my mother taught me how to frost cookies and cakes. It’s an experience that I remember with striking clarity because, in her kitchen, not just any frosting job would do. Frosting (the verb, not the noun) was not merely a job to get done. It was an art form.
On mornings when I wake up to a frosted world, I can’t help thinking back to what it was like learning to frost. I enjoyed learning, but mastering the techniques certainly didn’t happen overnight. This refined coating of a thousand minute crystals deposited by a sudden drop in temperature, on the other hand, does.
Watching the wind move fine snow over the landscape is mesmerizing to me.
It’s like an Olympic figure skating performance, complete with the artistry, sparkles and gold. The wind and the snow, they are like the perfect couple, as the wind tosses the snow up, spinning, catching it again with effortless ease, moving in perfect time with each other and the sound of their own music. Only it’s right in my front yard, nobody’s keeping track of points, and I seem to be the only one watching.
Rejoicing Hills 