Please note: Last week, I began a brief series of reflections on “Processes.” I’m continuing that series here on Wednesdays.
Some friends of ours love Winter. They live in New England, and living in that part of the country, a love for the long, cold, snowy season is definitely a significant help to being happy! They often post photos on Facebook of their winter hiking excursions or backcountry skiing adventures. Sitting in the warmth of my family room, it looks so beautiful…so fun…so cold!
At what point does a person outgrow the childhood indifference to cold? Remember those days when you could play outside in the snow nearly all day? Sure, you got cold but didn’t seem to notice it, really. Then something happened. Not like a switch got flipped, and the cold seriously bugged you. More like a dimmer switch set low at first, then gradually turned higher until you find yourself dreading going outside in January. Well, “dreading” may be too strong a word—perhaps.
So here we are nearly two-thirds of the way through Winter. Phil promised an early Spring (which likely means a more prolonged Winter, given his track record), but last week temps plummeted well below zero. The rebound was most welcome, but it reminded me of something I once heard Garrison Keillor say on Prairie Home Companion. “February,” he said, “is Winter’s last attempt to kill you before Spring!” Sounds about right.
Keillor, of course, writes about life in the fictional, small Minnesota community of Lake Wobegon. As I understand it, the place is fictional, but he bases many of his stories on characters and settings familiar to him from his growing up years in the north country. So to hear a Minnesotan speak a tad disparagingly of Winter, I take heart for my own conflicted attitude.
Probably the best way to describe it is a love-hate relationship. Need I elaborate on the “hate” part? Another good friend is ecstatic when it snows—he earns some money, clearing out driveways for people. The kids, of course, love it, too. But remember that childhood indifference! It also helps that, if the timing is right and the accumulation sufficient, they stand a chance of school being closed. Well, who doesn’t love a “snow day”? Oh right. Working parents who have to arrange some kind of last-minute child-care.
“Hate” may be a bit too harsh. “Tolerate” may be better. I guess that’s how I feel when, first thing in the morning, I have to get all bundled up to go out and deal with the snow, clearing the drive and walks. Just a chore that needs to be done before getting at the real work of the day.
“Hate” isn’t too strong a word, though, to describe how much I loathe perpetually cold feet and hands that don’t want to warm up. Maybe we never should have gone to Florida in late Winter. I look out the window at the mix of frozen tundra and snow patches, my feet close to an inadequate space heater, and find myself reminiscing about my feet half-buried in warm sand, sun reflecting off gently rolling waves, and the shrill caws of sea birds.
There’s another side, though. No matter the season, I’d much prefer to get some exercise outside than in the fitness center at the YMCA. So, on a partly sunny, mild mid-20s° day, I ventured out to hike/walk my go-to spot along the Rock River not far from home. The crisp air and biting wind pricked the exposed skin on my face. Initially, my feet and hands were cold, but not freezing. The sun, when it peeked out behind the clouds, brightened the afternoon and cheered my spirit.
Something interesting happens on these walks. After a brief time, I realize I’m not paying attention to the cold at all. The constant movement has spread warmth to my extremities, but not noticeably. In other words, I become oblivious to how I’m feeling—it’s a non-issue. My focus, I discover, has turned wholly outward. Fallen trees I hadn’t noticed before. Vast swaths of dead leaves form a stark contrast to the surrounding snow in areas sheltered from the sun’s brief warmth. Birds huddling close to one another for warmth. Ice fishermen braving the frigid wind whipping across the wide-open, frozen river.
I come upon an interesting oddity. Nothing is growing out here. The entire woodland seems dead in its mid-winter dormancy. Where the snow has melted away, the exposed dominant colors are shades of brown and gray. But walking along a stream, vibrant green—lots of it, in the middle of the stream itself—stands out, as if in bold rebellion against Winter’s attempt to kill all living things!
As I’m heading back along the path, the sun periodically breaks through gray clouds, casting long shadows across a brilliant white, snow-covered field. I pause a few moments to feel the warmth of the sunlight on my cold face and realize warmth permeates my entire body. No cold hands. No frigid feet. I find it all so…refreshing.
And at that moment, I get a taste of the love my New England friends have for Winter. There’s a part of me—this part, on this day, at this time—that wishes such ventures in the Winter outdoors could be a regular part of my life’s routine. I sense my whole attitude toward these colder months would change significantly. Perhaps a sort of reversion to childhood, before the dimmer switch reached even the half-way point.
The more I reflect upon this sort of schizophrenic approach to Winter, the more I must admit the “hate” side is fueled by the snow and cold’s interference with my routines and personal comfort. I have my day planned out how I want to use my time. Then along comes a few inches of snow, and now my plans are all messed up because I have to spend an hour getting rid of the offending white stuff! And did I mention cold hands and feet? Where did I get the idea that my happiness was predicated upon perpetually warm appendages?
A couple of other thoughts strike me in this cold reflection.
First, there’s a subtle testimony to God’s faithfulness in Winter’s presence, with all its snow and cold. After the global flood, after the waters receded from the earth and found their place in the world’s oceans, lakes, and rivers, God made a covenant with mankind. Despite our inherent sin nature and propensity to violate His will, He promised never again to destroy the world in such a way and created the laws of nature that produce periodic rainbows as a sign of the covenant. Then He said this:
“While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease.”
(Genesis 8:22, ESV)
So here we are, thousands of years later, in the middle of another Winter. And there was one last year. And there will be one next year…and the next…. Just as God said.
In addition, Winter is a season of God’s making. Oh, I know. Scientists, climatologists, meteorologists can explain all the intricacies of weather patterns, the laws of nature that bring about this annual change of season, and so on. What they can’t do is explain the origins of those things. A Maskil of Asaph helps us with that, though.
“You [God] have fixed all the boundaries of the earth; you have made summer and winter.”
(Psalm 74:17, ESV)
So I guess I need to be careful about this relationship I have with Winter. Maybe it’s OK to acknowledge displeasure at my discomfort, so long as it doesn’t devolve into an old guy’s grumpy griping. But I’m thinking maybe “hating” something God made is out of line—especially when there really is so much wonder, beauty, and awe to be found out there.
So, let’s try to appreciate it (says the pastor to himself). Brrrr!
