It’s snowing.

It feels like that word needs to be whispered.

It’s sacred.

The first snow.

Gentle.

Soft.

Quiet.

Unassuming.

Yet powerful,

Capable,

Transforming.

Snow.

Peaceful and dangerous.

Delightful and disdained.

Children welcome it best.

They came in today, sopping wet.

There was no avoiding it,

This dangerous delight.

“We made a snowman, Teacher!” they exclaim.

“Where are your snow pants?” I ask.

They look blank back.

Who needs protection to enjoy snow?

As a child you revel

With no regrets.

No thought of the future,

Of consequences.

All that fills their minds and moves their bodies is a desire to

Create.

God showers his children with His version of playdough

And says,

“Imagine. Shape. Form. Make.

And delight in the making,

In the creating,

And in the creation.”

And little likenesses of God do just that.

They take this gentle, soft, quiet, unassuming snow,

And make something

Powerful, capable, transforming.

Snow.

Peaceful and dangerous.

“Don’t throw snowballs!” she reminds them.

Delightful and disdained.

“Who is sad that it’s winter now?” she asks.

No one responds.

It’s snowing.

Again.

And it will snow

Again,

And

Again.

This continual

Coming down,

From Heaven,

Delightful,

Dangerous.

It makes me smile.

Secretly.

There is more like the snow.

Heaven-sent.

More that is soft, gentle, unassuming.

That has the potential to be

Powerful, capable, transforming.

It’s in me.

It’s in them.

I whisper it sacred,

It’s snowing.