Lessons from the First Snow

​On Monday morning I woke up–as many of you did–to snow. I knew there was a chance of snow when I went to bed on Sunday night, but I didn’t really think there would be snow of any significance…I was wrong. It wasn’t a lot of snow–just enough to blanket the earth with something beautiful, soft, and light. And it was just enough to be inconvenient.  

I’m just never ready for the first snow. I’m never ready to admit that winter is truly here. I’m never ready to begin doing the “penguin shuffle” on driveways, stairways, and sidewalks so as to steady myself in case there are icy patches hiding beneath the white fluff. I’m never ready to admit that time has run out on all of the things I had promised myself that I would get to “before the snow flies.”

For example, that morning as I was pushing the snow on our driveway with a shovel, I kept running into patches of grass in the driveway cracks. Now, I had looked at those patches of crabgrass and weeds every day. And every day I had promised myself that I would make time to pull it all out. I would get it done “before the snow flies” so that the shovel would run smoothly over the top and the snowblower wouldn’t go shooting grass clumps out of its auger. On Monday, that promise was unfulfilled. Sure, this snow would likely melt. And, yeah, there’s a chance I could still get that grass pulled when it does. But honestly, it was looking a lot less likely.

As I ran into those grass clumps, I cursed my former self. I grumbled at the version of me who had decided to do all kinds of other things–have supper with my spouse, play with my dogs, work late, go visit someone in the hospital, watch football, do nothing and rest–anything other than dig out grass clumps from driveway cracks.

After running my shovel into yet another clump, I looked up in frustration…and saw my spouse. They were sweeping snow off the driveway with my shop broom. There they were, out in their shorts and tennis shoes, enjoying the cool morning helping me move snow. They can’t shovel snow because of a health condition, and they can’t help if the snow is wet and heavy, but on Monday morning, the snow was just right, and they could help. 

As I looked down our long driveway in the early morning light, as snow continued to fall, I felt my heart warm. I smiled at my spouse, and suddenly the grass patches didn’t matter quite as much. They were still there, mind you, but they were no longer beacons of my poor time management. They were not monuments to my own personal failures. They were a gift I didn’t know I needed–those grass clumps had gotten me to look up.

On Sunday in my homily, I shared that the focus of Advent is the path, and how we are called to make the paths straight–to prepare the way for God’s tenderness to make its way to us. I shared that we each are tasked with seeing what obstacles on our paths might be getting in the way of us experiencing the God’s unwavering adoration for each of us. I still believe all of that to be true. But on Monday morning, one other thing proved itself to be true as well:  Sometimes the obstacles in our path get us to stop long enough to look around and see the ways God’s tenderness has already arrived to greet us.

That morning, the grass clumps stopped me long enough to see the person I love, in the snow, doing what they could–not what they couldn’t–to help out with something they usually cannot help with. Those grass clumps stopped me long enough to take in the moment, to savor what is good and right in my life and in the world. Those grass clumps were a gift that allowed me to see God’s tenderness already setting up shop in our driveway–in my life.

So this week, I want to invite you to keep your focus on the path just as we spoke about on Sunday. But I also want to invite you to not curse the obstacles that you find along the way. I want to invite you to give those obstacles a chance to be a gift. To get you to look up long enough to see how God’s adoration and tenderness have already found you. 

Letting the obstacles of the path surprise me, and hoping they surprise you too,
Pr. Melissa

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