I’ve seen enough snow for a lifetime. Snow is pretty. Each flake is a miracle of uniqueness. It’s a source of fun and sport when skiing or sledding. It provides one of the most beautiful metaphors for God’s forgiveness, when the prophet Isaiah declares:
“Come now, let us reason together, says the LORD: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.
I get it, already. Now turn it off. That’s why I’m a day late with this post. I’m so depressed about the current state of atmospheric affairs.
The funny thing is, I wasn’t here for most of it. During the bulk of the deluge, I was in warmer climes. I know I should be thankful for that break, and I am. I know I should follow St. Paul’s advice and do all things without complaining, but I can’t help it.
How much snow, cold, ice, and darkness can a human being endure? How on earth do people in Rochester, NY, and International Falls, MN, not to mention Siberia, Finland, and Alaska, survive year after year? Then there are the ancillary miseries:
- Fighting over the last bread and milk in the grocery store before an oncoming storm. (Why do people stock up on white stuff just before a snowstorm?)
- Driving on slick, washboard-rough roads knowing that, when (if) it all melts (in June, maybe) the streets will be transformed into a montage of canyonesque potholes.
- Hacking ice dams off the roof before your walls spring leaks as torrential as Niagara.
- Repairing damage left by aforementioned waterfalls.
I can’t do it. If I hadn’t spent three weeks in the warmth and sunshine of southern California, I swear I would have done myself in by now, throwing myself in front of a plow or on an icicle (that one →).
What’ll it be, these: