Today the white hung heavy on every branch. I’ve lived here, half tilt between the equator and the arctic circle, for fourteen years. And I’ve learned that snow has different temperaments. On some days it is fluttering and wispy. On others it can be icy and thin. Or heavy and thick. It can sting sideways through the air on a stiff clipper. Or it can fall slow and silent in the night, waking us with wonder as the dawn becomes day.
And the joyous surprise of it all really is this–every time it snows, it is a fresh memorial to grace. Because though my sins are scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.
I feel like a fledgling as I try to understand the infinity of His grace . . . the depth of His forgiveness . . . the completeness of the “Tetelestai!” cried on the cross. This “whiter than snow” absolution softens my soul and reminds me that I am pure and clean and dearly loved.
This rehearsal of mercy–it is winter’s gift.