It's Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas...

I have been praying for snow, hoping for snow, yearning for snow. In Alberta, it's sometimes hard to tell if you'll get blizzards or no snow all winter. I asked St Nicholas to bring some for his feast day, December 6th. And he did. I woke to big fat flakes falling around the trees in the backyard. I found my ski boots in the closet today.


A few days after the snow, the temperature dropped to 30 below zero. (Celsius).


The cold coated the inside edges of some of the windows. 5 year old Hannah grabbed a butter knife, making a game out of scraping it off.
Later, playing outside for all of five minutes, when I asked her for a face to express how cold it was, she gave me this:
At the liquor store, one of the employees ran in from carrying out a lady's bags and stamped his feet for several seconds. "It's not reasonable, this weather," he said. Perhaps not. But like many things of beauty and strangeness, what has reason to do with it?

So, I won't be skiing for a little while, but what care I? There is snow, glorious snow. Snow that holds the sun close to its wintry bosom, in at attempt to, if not get warm, at least shine fiercely. Snow that catches the moonlight and takes my breath away and brings tears to my eyes when I run out to the car to get something I forgot and am arrested by the sight; a sight that embodies silence. Snow that reflects the twinkling, colorful Christmas lights on the neighbourhood houses. Snow that covers my heart with gladness.

My freezer is filled with Christmas goodies, baking and a free range turkey that I bought from the Mennonites in September. My trees are twinkling happily, lights shine from the front walkway, hymns at Mass are now Advent hymns including my favourite, O Come, O Come, Emmanuel. My brother Daniel comes home for Christmas on Wednesday, flying from England. He had emailed asking if there were snow. "Please let there be snow," he'd written. Yes, Daniel. There is snow. Snow to welcome thee. Our arms are outstreetched, counting the hours now until you come home and they can enfold you once more.
"So snow comes after fire and even dragons have their ending!" -JRR Tolkien, The Hobbit, Chapter 18