Farewell to Winter

IMG_4065 editIMG_4046 editFarewell to watching the snow banks mount to the window sills and the thermometer drop out of sight,

to pulling elastic snow pants cuffs down over small boots,

to snow caves, snow men, and snow angels,

to a world that sparkles like a thousand diamonds in the sunshine,

to stepping in unexpected snow water puddles in stocking feet.

IMG_3886 editIMG_4176 editIMG_3888 editFarewell to the sometimes exquisite, always relentless work of the winter wind, 

to the battle for an open driveway,

to the endlessly shifting sea of snow dunes,

to snow banners off the shed roof.IMG_3911 editFarewell to rainbow sun dogs,

to silver moonlight on midnight blankets of snow,

to Orion, that great starry hunter,

and to the way he and all the rest of the host of heaven twinkles most splendidly on the bitterest of winter nights.IMG_3868 editIMG_4095 editFarewell to conjuring up baking projects just for the sake of making the kitchen cozy,

to scooping up great bowls of freshly-fallen snow to make snow ice cream,

to in-season citrus in the refrigerator drawer,

to rosy-cold cheeks bent appreciatively over steaming hot drinks.IMG_4056 editIMG_4048 editFarewell to the best and longest ski season in years,

to solo breaking trails through the sunset fields,

to swishing beneath the low-hung golden-green cedars while the swans murmur to each other along the banks of a laughing river,

to laughing with friends through the trials of sticky afternoon snow,

to the great frontier of yet-unexplored trails that must now wait until next season.IMG_2945 editIMG_3497 editFarewell to the long dark of winter evenings,

to dinners made elegant by candlelight,

to laps made warm by quilting projects,

to chapters read aloud by lamplight,

to games played late with old friends, and new.img_4154-edit.jpgFarewell to winter.

Welcome to spring.

“You have established all the boundaries of the earth; You have made summer and winter.” (Psalm 74:17)

 

Sledding

IMG_3811 edit.jpgAt 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. 

You’re probably right, little birdie.  But I can still relish a good hollering snow-in-the-face swish down a snowy hill, and that’s something.IMG_3821.JPGHe 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.

My yells of triumph quickly diminished to belabored frozen puffs of breath and the silence of effort as I shouldered into my yellow twine harness and trudged up the slope.  But when I glanced back over my shoulder, I could just see her eyes between the frozen folds of hat and face-warmer, and they were scrunched into an unmistakable smile.  She was riding like a queen in her shiny purple sequinned mittens, ensconced in state upon her blaze orange plastic chariot, and I was her trusty stead.

Oh, to be four again, when the troubles of life are so quickly and easily solved! img_3832 editAs 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.img_3838 editAt 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.

“Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?” (Matthew 6:26)

“And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water [or hot chocolate, if you live in northern Minnesota] to one of these little ones…truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward.” (Matthew 10:42)

 

 

Frosted

IMG_7147.JPGWhen 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.

We started with the least fussy of surfaces, a simple 9×13 cake.  She taught me how to spread the frosting evenly, thick to the edges but not quite touching the sides of the pan, never letting your knife touch the actual cake.  If you did it right, there was this beautifully rounded smooth edge to the whole sweet mass.  Then, you went back over the whole thing and made rows of dips or swoops, evenly but quickly so it didn’t look like you tried too hard.  If you did that part right, it looked as effortless and beautiful as the wind-tossed waves of sun-kissed lake.  If you didn’t—well, let’s just say that’s what my first attempts looked like.

From there we graduated to different surfaces, different kinds of frosting.  Whipped cream allowed the greatest abandon of perfection, and was great fun—but one still had to fuss with it a bit, because it still needed to look artsy.  Meringue was where deeper dips were needed to create the desired peaks; extra points if those peaks curled at the tips.  Glaze required wrist flicking, and the artful contriving of “even” drips all around.

Shaped sugar cookies were the final test of my basic skills, and true sign that I was about to graduate.  The technique was just like a cake, only applied with the tippiest-tip of a butter knife, maintaining that smooth rounded edge all around varied curves that included the narrow length of gingerbread arms and complicated crystaled forms of snowflakes.  You never scraped you knife on the edge of a cookie.  That was what the edges of the frosting bowl were for.

Once I’d mastered that, you’d think I’d arrived—but not so!  That’s when I started poring over her folder full of Wilton cake decorating books.  I’d hover around the table with my siblings, watching with fascination as my mom turned the sides of a layer cake into a woven basket and created three-dimensional roses on the end of a giant nail for our picture-perfect birthday cakes.  It was time to advance to a whole new level.IMG_7113.JPGIMG_7130IMG_7128IMG_7135IMG_7109.JPGOn 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.

I love how God makes something we have to work so hard to do right look so stunningly effortless.

“He gives snow like wool; He scatters the frost like ashes.” (Psalm 147:16)

A Sparkling Performance

img_7343-e1518823912498.jpgWatching the wind move fine snow over the landscape is mesmerizing to me.

The snow dances,

whisked low, sifting as smooth as the most refined granulated sugar over the open spaces,

then spinning around to be thrown high, chasing billows of itself wild and free through the limitless expanse of the air.

The swirling and pouring creates this constantly changing landscape of fine layers, and miniature buttes, mesas, dunes and canyons.

Best of all is when the sun is shining at the same time, adding sparkle and shimmer and gold to elevate the entire show from mesmerizing to magnificent.IMG_6885img_6877-e1519176732283.jpgimg_6862.jpgIMG_6873IMG_7376-1.jpgIt’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.

But there the comparisons will have to cease, because other than the suspense of who will win, the required precision and ranking system of such a human performance removes it from the sheer mystery and wonder to be found in the movement of the wind and it’s interplay with the snow.

It’s no wonder that Solomon chooses the wind, then, as his comparison to the great mystery of how God works.

“As you do not know the path of the wind…so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things. (Ecclesiastes 11:5)

Or, as a more familiar passage states it:

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
            Nor are your ways My ways,” declares the LORD.

      “For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
            So are My ways higher than your ways
            And My thoughts than your thoughts.” (Isaiah 55:8-9)

Porcupine

img_6749.jpgOh, to be a porcupine up in a tree,

a conspicuous ball of black against the blue,

placidly nibbling tree buds,

oblivious to the -25 wind chill,

whose only response to a curious passerby ankle deep in snow

(after that twinkling in his eye—or was I imagining that?)

is to curl up into a slightly tighter ball,

just to be sure I didn’t forget that he had nothing to be afraid of underneath all that spiky armor.

IMG_6744.JPGBut I suppose that since I can’t be a porcupine

I can be a city on a hill instead, or maybe a lamp on a stand—or maybe both at once, since they have so much in common.

Especially the way a city glows after dark,

conspicuous for miles around in it’s reflections up to the heavens,

placidly humming with all the activity that makes it a city,

stoplights constantly switching colors,

brake lights flashing and turn signals blinking,

people closing the blinds at night so they can sleep in spite of the constant glow of lampposts.

Cities, like porcupines, don’t really know who might be wearily traveling

down long highways way off in the darkness,

gazing at the lights,

moving towards them and their promise of things to eat and places to lay their heads—

but they shine on steady through the night anyway.

You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16)

Frost Fire

IMG_6324.JPGThere’s a new year rising, about ready to break over the horizon just like the sun was on this breathtakingly frosty morn.

What will it hold?

Naturally, not one of us can predict exactly.  We can talk, dream of and discuss plans, goals and resolutions until the clock strikes midnight—but no one really knows what will happen.  This we do know, however:

“Commit your work to the LORD, and your plans will be established.” (Proverbs 16:3)

Because of that, just as the hoary treetops turned to fire, aflame with the hope and oncoming glory of the new day, this new year can be bright with hope on your horizon, too.  No matter what it holds, if we acknowledge Him each step of the way—be it exciting, ordinary or difficult—He will make our path straight.  Cling to that!

Best of Both Worlds

IMG_6148.JPGIs it Christmas lights?  Is it snow?

Yes.

Inside the house, our Christmas tree with the big white origami star brushing the ceiling is twinkling bright; outside the snow lies “deep and crisp and even”*.  In the reflection of the cold windowpane, I can see both at once.  It’s the best of both of my December worlds: all the warmth of a joyful holiday celebration mingled with the wide white expanse of winter’s best accessory, now richly blue in the falling dusk.

It’s also an appropriately symbolic picture of Christmas, considering that the One whose birth we celebrate this week was also the very best of both worlds.  Not of indoors and outdoors, but of heaven and earth.

If I could show you a picture of Him, you might ask:

Is He God?  Is He man?

Yes.

May the marvel of this mystery fill you with thoughtful joy and wonder this Christmas!

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14)

 

*From the carol “Good King Wenceslas” by John Mason Neale.