There is Beauty Here Too

A thick covering of white snow blanketed our Easter weekend. Just when perky daffodils and welcoming tulips were emerging and greeting our tired souls with hopeful color, an ocean of white overtook them and washed them out. In the middle of a global pandemic, the new life of spring sparked reminders of hope, and I felt myself exhale a little bit.

But that cold front sucked the air right back in, and I found myself longing for the purity of sun and its comforting warmth. Reluctantly, I pulled out my boots and thick coat. I shook my head at my sandals and said, “not today”. I dismissed expectations of family pictures outdoors and settled for a selfie in the kitchen.

Being a native Coloradan, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by forecasts of 70 degrees and sunny being eclipsed by snow overnight, especially in the spring. But my body and my mind have a hard time catching up with the sudden shift in reality.

Grief is like a spring snow.

An unexpected swallowing up of life that leaves us breathless, shivering and closed off.

Whether forecasted or not, grief hurls us from one reality into another, and our minds and bodies struggle to reconcile the contrast. We pace familiar surroundings and yet feel completely lost and out of place from what was. The buzz of the world hushes to a mute and silence becomes painfully loud. We crave color and curse the cold that froze the life we had.

“This is not how it should be!” our souls scream.

I went for a run while that Easter snow was still untainted. The silence outside was reverent. The gravel path absent of people was holy ground. I gazed on the glory of a still lake, hemmed in by this pure white robe. And I exhaled again.

Oh God, there is beauty here too!

A great blue heron, without a grand audience or distraction captivated my gaze. And I stopped and watched it gracefully strut through shallow water. Such wonder I had not pondered before.

When I returned home, I greeted the budding green life beneath the icy white snow. They will still bloom. I gazed upward at the heavy gray sky and nodded toward the hidden sun. It is still there. I spotted a robin’s nest holding eggs. They will still hatch. But in that moment, I thanked God for the wind and the cold:

Thank you God for quiet moments of contemplating frozen beauty. In our broken expectations and unmet longings, You meet us in the untimely cold. Even when things are not as they should be and we attempt to shield ourselves in the wind, You are actually showing us new ways of seeing. And we are forever deepened by the spring snow.