House on the Rock

It’s day nine hundred and seven million of winter. I take back everything I said about longing for cooler temps — I had no idea that a season could be so cruel. We had’t been outside in fourteen weeks, then got a small glimpse of false spring before frost froze our ground (and once again halted our hope of spring). The wind makes my bones shake. Snowstorm after snowstorm turned our terrain into a tundra where highways became ice rinks and the mountain ranges left by snowplows taunted us, saying, “We will never go away!” And for a long, long time, they didn’t. Snow was on the ground for a frustratingly long time. We celebrated double-digit temps — I am not meant to live like this!

Grumbling almost seems second nature. I have found myself saying in nearly every conversation what a horrible winter it’s been. I stare outside and frown. I draw the curtains to seal in more warmth and wrap myself in a blanket of thinly-veiled gloom. I hate it here, I whisper to myself as I refresh airline sites for discounted flights south, and I wonder when any climate over forty degrees became such an enticing, yet pitifully low bar for vacation.

But amidst all my frostbitten fury, I’m struck by some of the sweetness of a winter trapped inside. As the calendar moves to March and spring seems even a second closer, my heart of ice begins to thaw. I force myself to slow down, draw the curtains and — for once — not frown. Because while I was busy fuming and freezing, I forgot to remember the gifts of this season.

I forgot to remember the smell of homemade bread in the oven, coursing through the halls of our home like a song. The way the steam dances through the air upon slicing that crisp-and-yet-soft loaf warms my face, even if only for a moment, and I smile. This season of perpetual insideness has given way for more bread, more muffins, more soups, and yes, more weight gain — but more importantly, more time to savor snacks that warm our homes, hands, and hearts.

I forgot to remember the intentionality of God’s handiwork as every unique snowflake reminds us of his tender care and compassion. If he, the Star-Breather, is intentional enough to grace every snowflake with different sides and squiggles, then surely he sees these tears that fall and cares for me all the more.

I forgot to remember the sweet gift of community, as singles on our street peeked through their blinds to see snow shoveled by neighbors who simply felt like being kind. Stay-at-home moms opened up their living rooms and lofts for the littles to get out their wiggles in a new set of walls. People lingered a little longer in the church hallway, desperate for the warmth of friendship that we were deprived of because no one was getting out on roads made of ice.

I forgot to remember what a gift it is to get creative inside: a Magna-Tile bowling alley, plastic bags filled with paint for mess-free memory making, pillow forts and pirate ships and simply shoving snow inside a bowl for portable snowman-making that requires no part of standing in the cold. Cooped up with a one-year-old was not for the faint of heart, but I’d rather be close, inside, together, than warm and far apart.

In a season that was always winter and never Christmas, it felt hard to cling to contentment. And many, many, days, I didn’t. But March is here — warmer days are ahead. The grass will soon be green and we will play outside instead. It’s now, with this hope on the horizon, that I can look back and see the sweetness of a season spent shivering.