Winter wonders...

The other morning, I woke up to an absolutely amazing, beautiful sound...a hush, if you will. What I heard was almost imperceptible, and it took a few moments for my sleepy mind to put together the two words that to my heart described the sound perfectly: falling quiet. It was blissful, and a bleary-eyed trip to the bedroom window brought a sleepy but joyous smile to my face. It was snowing! That in itself is not so unusual, after all we do live in Colorado. Snow is a frequent visitor to our fields and orchards, but this snow was different. It followed quite a few weeks of my faint grumblings about the cold, windy and dreary weather that seemed to dominate our landscape. I had been missing the lush greens of summer, the cerulean blue of the skies that only a few short months ago would burst upon my eyes and almost make me squint in their vibrancy. So what was it about this snow that awakened deep within me a nascent whisper of a gardener's joy? It was not just the snow, but the fluttering, flitting and sweetly vocal visitors that danced upon its surface, in search of seeds and fruits beneath the white blanket. I'd all but forgotten how charmed I am each year by the juncos and finches that show up just after a drop of fluffy powder, as if spurred and enthused by the challenge of searching out food beneath the soft, snowy crust. Their tweets and twitters sound like tiny giggles and squeals of excitement, with some perched on our numerous bird feeders, happily scuttling niger thistle and sunflower seeds to their companions below. The juncos look like fat little ladies, wrapped in gray and blue fleeces and muffs, gossiping and laughing in the church yard after a winter potluck supper. The house finches, in their own red and buff feathers, would be the dapper, vested gentlemen scurrying to fetch carriages and blankets to whisk their ladies quickly home. As I daydreamed about what these tiny creatures might be thinking and saying to each other, I found myself perfectly happy in that moment, despite the cold that at times makes winter feel interminable to me. I was reminded that the Lord's idea of restoration and renewal is far different from mine, and indeed is much loftier and wise. The cold, sometimes harsh weather that I am prone to decry is simply a clever disguise for the only-sleeping ground and greenery that will in short order burst forth when Spring once again arrives. He asks only that I am patient, trusting Him to know exactly what I and His brilliant Creation need. It needs rest, and as His child, so do I. Perhaps I would grow weary of tending the brilliant flowers and burgeoning trees He brings to my yard each year, if He did not cause my busy hands to cease and rest from their labors. Surely I would come to subtly despise the gifts from our gardens, if all I could do was pick, can, pick and can some more. It is, after all, feverish work for a time, and while it is satisfying and fruitful, it is tiring. So He gives me rest. Rest and quiet, and snowflakes and finches to remind me that I, like those tiny creations, am unique and precious to Him. As I savor the snowflake, He savors me. That is a tremendous thought, and not, I think, too terribly egotistical. So I repented of the previous day's complaining, whispered my thanks, and crawled back into bed beside my toasty warm husband. As I drifted back to sleep, I felt a childlike wonder that perhaps I'd missed or forgotten along life's stormier paths. Spring would come soon enough, but for now, I would rest. And I would savor the winter.