When we first moved from the deep-south to the mid-west, I devoted many-an-hour to my favorite new past-time:
Watching fresh snow fall from the heavens.
(A sky-show we Sunshine State girls dream of all our lives.)
Rhythmic magic, drifting in peaceful purpose, as if called for calm by its Maker.
And, it didn’t disappoint.
Until that day in May, six months later.
Having arrived early to pick up my kids from school, I was enjoying my last moments of quiet for the day, when, to my southern surprise—fluffy, fat drops, clothed in white, began dancing along my windshield.
Does it never get warm around these parts?
Hey, Mother Nature, in case you’ve lost your calendar…it’s Spring!
This Florida girl had had her fill of freezing weather, thank you very much.
Looking out my window as I write this morning, delicate snow-puffs catch in the wind this early spring day.
For many, it feels like the winter that just won’t quit this year.
Soft beauty elegantly falling—in the wrong season.
And yet, there’s just something about snow that makes you want to forgive it.
Maybe it’s the south in me, but even when snow pushes the boundaries of its season, I can’t help but be charmed by its gentleness.
A grace shower, it is.
Seems to me that beauty is subjective. That it adapts to its surroundings, malleable to the most unforeseen of moments.
The barely-visible green of blossoms pressing up against lacy, white snow—two seasons converging.
It occurs to me that this is Hope in all its glory. Tweet This
The long winter of pain, bumping up against the comforting spring of relief.
Beauty beneath the surface—greeting beauty in the light.
Beauty upon beauty.
Both submissive to their parts of the story.
Winter and Spring. Rising up, becoming one.
Bearing witness to Hope.
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