We were expecting snow, so I was unsurprised. I awakened with a smile because I knew that when I raised the shades, I would see blinding whiteness. We’re low on snow in the High Country, and Christmas is coming. It is time.
An unique stillness accompanies snowfall. I mentioned a month ago that I experienced snow in Venice in October. I cited the quiet in a city known for bustle and noise. (Maybe Venetian opera singers supplement their income in gondolas as underemployed artists do here as Starbucks baristas? Arias from La Traviata floated by from sunrise until sunset.)
But back to this morning, I thought of how we prepared for snow in the mountains: switching into snow tires (cha-ching!), draining irrigation systems, and scheduling maintenance on the boiler top the list. Early skiers and boarders pass my car, gear strapped atop their vehicles. They seek resorts making enough snow to begin to log days “on the mountain,” bragging rights in these parts. Municipalities bring in sand, gravel, and mag-chloride (snow melt), and parking lots fill with industrial snow plows.
Winter is an art here.
And Christmas is coming. We don’t do an indoor tree, but we wrapped lights on the blue spruce that represents this tradition. Presents are wrapped and laying against the window so that the tree twinkles behind them. Cards were mailed yesterday, and boxes of Christmas cookies will ship Monday to locations as varied as Connecticut, Illinois, and Texas.
I’m thankful for this snow and that my holiday and winter tasks are complete. I can focus on what is most important, which is preparing my heart for Christmas. (Ideally, I should do this all year long.) I scold myself that I prepare more for winter than to celebrate the birth of Christ.
All it takes is one snowflake to remind me of His coming, and to share His love with those around me. Thanks be to God!