I grab my camera and stand on the porch like a woman who has never seen snow and I snap pictures.
I snap 23 photos and not one of them shows a flake. Not even one.
I blame the camera, of course. Not the photographer.
The kids laugh and it’s snow.
We watch it fall for hours and it melts as soon as it hits the ground and the point is this: We watch it fall.
We slow and we laugh and we eat smore’s in the afternoon.
The flakes fall faster and the faster they fall, the slower we move and I think this must be what God intended when He gave us the Sabbath.
God sends snow and we hole up in the house and it is here, in the family room, when I know God gives the Sabbath, not as just a commandment, but as a gift.
We curl up on the couch and we tell stories about one another and the girls dance their hineys off. The boys dig out their boxing gloves and fall to the floor in hysteria and it is good.
Tortilla soup simmers in the crock pot and I bake quesadillas. Laughter bounces off the walls. The chatter of little people echoes throughout the house and I feel very much alive.
I breathe in the goodness of God and the more I breathe in, the more I long for deeper breaths.