Snow Days

Most of the people I meet in North Carolina — especially the ones who moved here from the north — are baffled when I tell them how much I love snow. They usually tell me that they don’t miss it at all. In fact, many of them tell me that they moved here to get away from it. They find nothing appealing about the cold and the icy roads, and the shoveling of sidewalks and driveways.

I love snow. I enjoy the beauty of a world covered in pristine white. And it brings back wonderful childhood memories of sledding, days off from school, and the reward of a hot cup of cocoa after coming in from several hours of play.

But I especially love snow in North Carolina because of the inconvenience. When it snows in Charlotte, normal daily activity comes to a standstill. Schools and offices are closed, appointments are cancelled and errands are abandoned. And the best part? There's nothing we can do about it! In the scurrying about of our regular routine, we begin to believe that we have complete control over our lives. Sure, some annoyances pop up now and again, but for the most part, we're in control. And heaven help the person who puts those obstacles in our way!

A snowstorm reminds us that there are forces at work in the universe greater than we are. There is an old saying that while people plan, God laughs. Most days we fret about getting to work or school on time, doctors appointments and soccer and dance lessons and Hebrew School, all the while trying to complete the myriad of other tasks on our to-do list. On snow days all we can do is stand still and look out at the world. Our only choice? — we can let ourselves become frustrated because of it, or we can enjoy the opportunity for respite from the daily chaos, rejoicing in the fact that we don't need to be in charge.

I had a teacher in seminary who became orthodox. He relished the fact that mundane tasks like buying food or clothing required conscious thought. He liked that, on Friday afternoon, ready or not, Shabbat would begin — and all those things that were left undone would remain undone for the next 25 hours. He liked knowing that he was not in control; he found it comforting that he could affirm on a regular basis — through the most common of activities — that there was something greater than he.

I look forward a good snowstorm the way I look forward to traveling to places of great scenic beauty. I love the moment where I stop and stare in wonder: suddenly coming upon a dramatic canyon while hiking in the Negev Desert; seeing the Kaikura Coast of New Zealand; observing at once the full moon rising above the ocean over my left shoulder and the sea of fall colors in Acadia National Park over my right from a mountaintop at sunset on Sukkot. Not only are those images burned into my memory, but with them the sensation of stillness and of awe. In the book of Genesis, Jacob declares, “God was in this place and I did not know it.” At moments like this, I know it.

Sometimes we have personal snow days — sudden, shocking, unexpected events in our lives that bring us to a screeching halt: the loss of a job, a frightening diagnosis, a sudden death, or the first moments of a new life. At times like these, we feel out of control and powerless. Our perspective changes. We are reminded of the things that truly matter. We have no choice but to stand still and take stock of the world around us. At times like these, we truly appreciate those we love; we discover the magnitude of our own strength; we consider the depth of our faith.

How the quality of our lives would change if we were reminded of these things on a regular basis! I'm not suggesting that we would be better off if our lives, like Job's, were constantly plagued. Rather, I'm asking: how would our lives change if we didn't wait for divinely-imposed snow days in order to take a moment to be still and look out at our world in awe? How would our perspective change if we were always conscious of the fact that God is indeed in this place?

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, whose Presence is manifest in all the earth!


B’shalom,
Andrew Bernard
Cantor