Something happens to me each fall on the day of the first real snowfall. I’m not talking about those spits and sputters with icy pellets that mix with rain. I mean the first time you look out and see the soft, light flakes falling from the autumn sky, dark clouds mixed with brief moments of sunlight. When it’s cold enough to prick the lungs when you inhale and clouds escape your mouth and nose when you breathe out.
I was once told that this time is a magical time for people like me – the abstract random thinkers. Personality profiles tell me that I’m one of those individuals who does not think of things in an orderly fashion, nor do I experience things concrete terms. I am a “compassionate dreamer,” one who feels more than thinks, who perceives more than judges. At a teaching conference, we were grouped according to our personality types, and as we sat chatting about the idiosyncrasies we abstract random/INFP’s exhibit, someone in the group mentioned that when the snow first falls, they love to make a cup of hot cocoa, put on winter seasonal music, and sit in the window and watch the falling puffs of white. We all chimed in that we like to do the same. And then our eyes filled with tears – not from sadness but from recognition that the first snow fall has always been magical to us.
As a boy, I used to love this time of year. Living in Johnsonburg, along Powers Run which paralleled the highway to St. Mary’s, PA, and being so close to the forest that which was just a leap away, the passing of seasons was not something we merely observed. They were experienced in all the senses: the sound of crunching leaves under our feet as we walked the path next to the stream; the sound of wind as it whistled through the leafless branches in the trees; the smell of burning barrels from gleaned gardens and raked yards. It all is a sign of time moving forward and the cycle of the year dropping down into a kind of quiet pall.
For me, it’s the sign that the summer is truly gone. The hot days and warm nights, the leisurely afternoons are all stepping aside. The leaves have mostly fallen, and the grass has stopped growing. There is a gentle surrender as the world puts itself to bed for a while. The sun does rise so high in the sky, and as it sets, it casts a golden light on each building and tree as it slowly disappears beyond the horizon.
God has made some of us very sensitive to these milestones during each year’s journey. We see things in constant motion, constant flux. We don’t fear the winter chill or the long nights. We embrace and respect them. And we see them as a reminder that there can be no rebirth without decay; there can be no resurrection without death. The days grow gradually colder. The snow falls gently, at first, on the soft ground. The nights grow steadily longer. And in the midst of this gradual passing we also recall in our random and abstract imaginations, that it won’t be long before the crocuses and daffodils will be pushing up through the soil to put winter to bed and hail the coming spring.
We are a patient people – we are an advent people. And we trust in God’s providence and love.
I was once told that this time is a magical time for people like me – the abstract random thinkers. Personality profiles tell me that I’m one of those individuals who does not think of things in an orderly fashion, nor do I experience things concrete terms. I am a “compassionate dreamer,” one who feels more than thinks, who perceives more than judges. At a teaching conference, we were grouped according to our personality types, and as we sat chatting about the idiosyncrasies we abstract random/INFP’s exhibit, someone in the group mentioned that when the snow first falls, they love to make a cup of hot cocoa, put on winter seasonal music, and sit in the window and watch the falling puffs of white. We all chimed in that we like to do the same. And then our eyes filled with tears – not from sadness but from recognition that the first snow fall has always been magical to us.
As a boy, I used to love this time of year. Living in Johnsonburg, along Powers Run which paralleled the highway to St. Mary’s, PA, and being so close to the forest that which was just a leap away, the passing of seasons was not something we merely observed. They were experienced in all the senses: the sound of crunching leaves under our feet as we walked the path next to the stream; the sound of wind as it whistled through the leafless branches in the trees; the smell of burning barrels from gleaned gardens and raked yards. It all is a sign of time moving forward and the cycle of the year dropping down into a kind of quiet pall.
For me, it’s the sign that the summer is truly gone. The hot days and warm nights, the leisurely afternoons are all stepping aside. The leaves have mostly fallen, and the grass has stopped growing. There is a gentle surrender as the world puts itself to bed for a while. The sun does rise so high in the sky, and as it sets, it casts a golden light on each building and tree as it slowly disappears beyond the horizon.
God has made some of us very sensitive to these milestones during each year’s journey. We see things in constant motion, constant flux. We don’t fear the winter chill or the long nights. We embrace and respect them. And we see them as a reminder that there can be no rebirth without decay; there can be no resurrection without death. The days grow gradually colder. The snow falls gently, at first, on the soft ground. The nights grow steadily longer. And in the midst of this gradual passing we also recall in our random and abstract imaginations, that it won’t be long before the crocuses and daffodils will be pushing up through the soil to put winter to bed and hail the coming spring.
We are a patient people – we are an advent people. And we trust in God’s providence and love.
