There is snow on the ground this morning. Not a lot of snow – just enough to produce the lovely sequence of a dozen or so squeaks beneath each footfall – just enough to cap the roof and nearly bury the green grass. But it is snow, and it is good.
I am a firm believer that living in Wisconsin should require the ownership of a snow-blower, or at least a small army of shovel-wielding minions. It’s Wisconsin. And being a Cheesehead through and through, I have determined that there is more than one type of seasonal affective disorder.
Brown winters make me crabby. They sap every ounce of life right out of me. Winter means white, and if I am to get through the doldrums of the cold and sunless days, I need the snow. I need the piles lining the driveway, the feet of fluff to trudge through, and the heaven falling from the sky. Thus far, the short days of ’15-16 has tested my resolve at happiness and Christmas cheer.
I don’t hold out too much hope that this particular blessed snowfall will last through to Christmas – the fog out there thick enough to pelt my face is strong evidence that my white Christmas is short-lived. But for right now, there is snow on the ground, and a fire on the hearth. And thankfully, Christ will come at Christmas, with or without the snow. Thankfully, neither my grinchiness nor the state of the atmosphere will prevent Him.
Christ is born!