Friday it begins.
Softly at first, slowly, then steadily it builds. Flakes fall, millions of tiny prophecies of what’s to come. Individually they fall, collectively they build, together they form the unfolding story.
Swirling they dance in time to a rhythm set by the Artist who crafted them and stirred them up into being, not one racing ahead of the pace metered out from above. They were made for this.
The afternoon sun dims as the stage is set for a drama never before told, but oh so familiar, its plot whispered of throughout ages past. The storm takes its position as light fades to dark, an actor executing its part unseen, yet heard even through doors shut and locked and felt through windows barred and curtained.
Saturday it continues.
The blizzard didn’t sleep. Cloaked in darkness it rushed on in frozen fury, pounding the ground, lightening and thunder cracking the sky.
And the snow continues to swarm like bees, swirling tightly, obscuring the sun, stinging any who wander into its midst.
All remain inside, huddled together and watching in wonder. Even though the outcome was often discussed, everyone waits in suspense as if none had heard what had been told.
The sun rises, reveals what all had been straining to see. Piled high in heaps, each tiny snowflake reflecting the light, scattering the beams like a million prisms, highlighting the glory of what’s come.
This blanket of white, laid heavy on the sleeping earth, undisturbed, unmoved, a silent testament that all has been covered.
The beauty draws some out and neighbor joins neighbor in parallel work, stranger joins stranger in communal play, and together we live and work and play in this deep mercy, baptized in this depth that none can exhaust, though many a shovel is enlisted.
Clinging to coats, a mercy that follows us home.
a short reflection of the parallels within the Baltimore blizzard of 2016 to the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus.