Boots Squeaking on Snow by Rose McCormick Brandon

 

Have you entered into the treasures of the snow? Job 38:22

When it's many degrees below zero, boots squeak on snow. Breath hangs in the air like little clouds. Noses turn red, frost clings to lashes. Tree branches become as stiff and as dangerous as swords.

Alone in the cold tramping along a path we feel our humanity. Frost numbs the legs and nibbles at fingers and toes. Most days we don't sense our fragility; we don't realize how dependent we are on something as basic as warmth. Cold draws out our primitive nature. It bites and stings. And invigorates.

As a toddler, our son had croup many times. Croup is an infection that causes swelling in the airway and makes it difficult to breath. In the middle of the night we would awake to loud wheezing sounds which meant he was gasping for air. This sickness is more common in winter and winter air is a remedy for it. The doctor recommended bundling him into a snow suit and carrying him outside. The cold air reduced the swelling and made it easier for him to breath. While the rest of the street slept, we took turns pacing back and forth, our steps squeaking on the snowy front porch. Each minute in the frozen air improved his breathing.

Prayer comes easily when accompanied by the sound of boots squeaking on snow. Especially in the darkness. The sound makes God seem nearer. Humanity sleeps but He remains awake, listening to our prayers.

For He says to the snow, fall on the earth . . . Job 37:6

Father, in the cold and dark of night, you hear my prayers. 

Treasures in the Snow by Rose McCormick Brandon

We glided on the groomed trail, our skis squeaking on the snow. Under the stars on this clear and frosty night, we were caught in a Christmas card moment. Pine trees trimmed with white bordered the trail. Branches swept downward in a graceful arc and crowded us into single file. We huffed up the hills, my three children climbing easier and huffing less than I, and glided thankfully down their other sides.

Our cheeks rosy with health, we occasionally stepped off the path to let others whiz by, sacrificing our momentum for courtesy. One man, a scowl on his face to show he was in earnest about this skiing business, groaned when he passed us on a straight patch. I wonder if he sees the trees, I thought. Or the stars. Does he recognize the snow under his feet as a gift from a Creator with a universe full of design to his credit? Can he read God’s message to him in the aroma of pine, in the moon that makes shadows dance around us, in the untouched snow to our left and right that covers a naked and embarrassed earth with its blanket of purity?

An ancient, man, Job, was asked this question by God, “Have you entered into the treasures of the snow?” He meant, “Do you get it? Do you get the message of the snow?” (Job 38 is a magnificent piece of writing.)

King David of Israel, wrote this:  ^"He gives snow like wool . . ." (Psalm 147:16).  Wool is used to make warm coverings. Snow, like a woollen coat, covers the ground. Every human needs a spiritual covering – a blanket of purity. Everyone who asks receives one. 

Isaiah brings the whole of Biblical thought on snow to a conclusion. “Though your sins be as scarlet,” he wrote, “they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isaiah 1:18).

Here’s the message of the snow:

Jesus will take your sins far away from you and leave you covered in a warm blanket of purity – you'll be like newly fallen snow, unmarked, as if you’d never sinned at all.

The memory of this golden night on the ski trails at Hiawatha, one of life’s perfect moments, clings to me. We weren’t the best skiers out that night, my darlings and I, or on any night after that, but when others limped home chilled to the bone, we limped pleasured to the core by God’s amazing gift of creation.

Rose McCormick Brandon lives in Caledonia, Canada with husband Douglas. Her book, One Good Word Makes all the Difference is available at http://writingfromtheheart.webs.com. or by contacting the author at: rosebrandon1@yahoo.ca

A Room is Waiting—Carolyn R. Wilker

We’re past Easter now, but not into lasting spring weather, at least not here in the northern hemisphere. Winter has a tenacious hold on us. It rains, it snows, gets colder and then snows again, just like yesterday when I wrote this post.

I’m waiting for spring. I even bought a pot of daffodils to remind me of it, since ours in the garden have so far only sent up leaves and two daffodils before the weather changed again. More snow blew in and covered the garden. It’s a good thing the early flowers are used to this. Perhaps they’re more patient than we are. 

More flowers have come into bloom since I brought them home. Daffodils are a sure sign of spring—a season we are hopeful will come to stay very soon. We humans are not so good at waiting.

I bought the daffodils, not for me, really, but with someone else in mind. Our loved one who’s in a bed in hospice, no longer able to will his body, or trust his legs, to get out of bed of his own accord. The daffodils are intended as a spot of springtime brightness for his room, something he can see from his bed. I also bought a big bag of peanuts, an item on the wish list at the hospice.

plenty of windows to let the sun in and for looking out

There’s a door to outside from each patient room, and plenty of windows so patients can look out, even if they cannot physically go there. Today, when I go to visit my father, I will take the pot of daffodils and the peanuts. I’ll put some peanuts outside to entice birds and squirrels—whichever gets them sooner—to come closer, so he can watch their antics and their coming and going. The bag of peanuts is large enough that other patients can have the same opportunity, even if it’s the family or volunteers who spread the treats.

  a big bag

 A fellow storyteller shared this quote from Ram Dass this week—"We’re all just walking each other home." For the patient, last days, weeks, or even months. For family members involved, last conversations with our loved ones. We know in our head the time will come  for our patient—and for each one of us—but in our heart, we are never ready to say goodbye. The separation is the hardest, for both patient and family.

And yet, we have the peace of knowing where our loved one will go at the end of this earthly life, and it’s a whole lot better than here, if we believe what we read in God’s Word to be true. No need for snow shovels there, or winter coats and mittens. No worries about flowers freezing when another icy blast comes in April. It will be better than we can imagine.

As the philosopher wrote in Ecclesiastes, there’s a time for everything. “A time to be born, a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot… a time to weep and a time to laugh.” (chapter 3, v.1, 2, 4) While we put in these days—whatever time is given to us— let us also be prepared and know there is a room prepared for us, and that we’ll be welcomed when we arrive.

Squeaky Footsteps - McCormick Brandon

When it's many degrees below zero, boots squeak on snow. Breath hangs in the air like little clouds. Noses turn red, frost clings to lashes. A windless frozen day, tree branches stiff, dangerous as swords.

Feet tramp down the crispy trail, toes sting with chill. Alone in the cold. The sensation links us to nature, forces us to feel our fragility. Without a warm fire at the end of the trail, blood would turn to ice; we'd perish. Most days we don't feel our humanity; we don't remember how dependent we are on something as basic as fire. Cold draws out our primitive nature.

Freezing temperatures also have medicinal qualities. As a child, our son Carson suffered bouts of croup. My husband and I woke often in the middle of the night to the sound of his whooping gasps. We'd bundle him into a snow suit and carry him outside. While the rest of the street slept, we took turns pacing; back and forth; our steps squeaked on the front porch. Under a dark, star-filled sky, God seemed close. We looked to Him to ease our son’s laboured breathing. Step, inhale, step, exhale. Our breath-clouds hung in mid-air.

An hour in the cold. Just what the doctor ordered to open swollen passages. We return our son to his crib. Rest on little one, our squeaky steps have made you whole.

Prayer comes easy when accompanied by the sound of my boots squeaking on snow-covered ground. Cold snaps me back to reality; makes me thankful for simple things like fire.
When worry overwhelms, a winter walk can be just what’s needed. Each boot squeak draws us closer to God.