On Saturday evening, the posted weather forecast called for between four and eight inches of snow on Sunday. It started early, before I got up and made my way downstairs. By mid-day, the revised report had lowered the expectation by half. An unanticipated resurgence in the afternoon pushed it back to its former level. By storm’s end around midnight, we had over nine inches of fresh opportunity.
We’ve had forecasts before that didn’t pan out quite as predicted. Sometimes, the collision of warm and cold moved south of us, sending the devastation of ice to southern Missouri and leaving us with nothing but a dusting of snow. Sometimes, the mix line moved north, casting Iowa in a treacherous glaze and bringing us nothing more than showers. And, other times, we get caught in the midst of the heavy. With a bit of looking around, there’s always someone who got off easier than we did and someone who got a heavier hammering.
I’ve prayed to be spared from some storms and have walked without so much as an umbrella. Sometimes, I’ve shoveled the same snow four times. Some days, my faith and hope shine undaunted and I face the trials as if the whole thing were nothing more than a quick sweeping of the steps. Other times, it seems that I can sense the weight of a single snowflake on my shoulder. Most often, I would rather be spared the storm but I know that faith is not formed in the carefree life of ease but is rather forged in the path of obedience.
So, for today, I will slow my speed a bit and carry a shovel. I will praise him in the shadow of this storm and trust him to bring spring in its own due season.