Snowflakes in February

“This life is not what I thought it would be. This is not what I bargained for. It is not at all what I wanted, either. If I had known it would be like this, I would have never made this choice, I would have never made this promise. You must forgive me, God, but I want to go back. You cannot hold me to a promise made in ignorance; you cannot expect me to keep a covenant based on faith…” – Walter J. Ciszek

Growing up in the nation’s snowbelt, sometimes winter could seem endless. The excitement felt as those first flurries swirled up against the window panes chills after Christmas, and even their arrival can bode hardship as we grow up and the thoughts of sledding and snowmen turns to the expectation of plowing, shoveling, and sore muscles.

Certainly by February, regardless of what one’s winter season looks like, life seems to have reached a lull. Winter’s magic is gone. The remainder of the school year seems so long, stretching out before us. Tax season with its myriad of forms has come. Sometimes it seems unfair that what the liturgical cycle throws at us in this moment is the approach of Lent. February, in a symbolic sense, often stands for that moment of disillusionment so aptly described by Fr. Ciszek: why does my vocation have to include this suffering?

Why did I greet a new year with enthusiasm when I still have these depressing weeks to muddle through before spring?

In some ways, it is right and fit to greet Lent now though. So many poets have reminded us that the darkest hour of the night is the hour before the dawn. Beginning a new year in the midst of winter forces us to live in hope of spring, rather than greet it in a gluttonous satisfaction of having already arrived. Faith rests in loving and trusting when the future is unseen, before the climax is reached.

This year, though, we have somewhat of a respite. Ash Wednesday is not yet upon us; we can enjoy Valentine’s day without thoughts of fasting, and we have this longer stay of ordinary time between the celebrations of the Christmas season and the penitential rites. Are we finding meaning in this time? Or have we even noticed it there?

Some of us possess the fault of not looking ahead, at being caught up too much in the details and sensations of the present. As a result, just glancing up down the road fills us with worry. Others are caught always with our eyes on the horizon; if we focus on the final end of every action, we avert the worry but we might also miss out on the joys of the present or meet daily problems with frustrated inattention.

Ordinary time resets us here, and now. How are we doing? What has been distracting us? What gifts have our obsessions kept us from sighting?

Sometimes, in homeschooling, I experience the pleasure of learning something new alongside my children; this occurred recently when we read about Wilson “Snowflake” Bentley, an amateur scientist who set his heart on photographing individual snowflakes.  In the late 1800s, he would spend hours outside whenever a snowstorm hit, photographing snowflake after snowflake as they melted mere seconds after having been captured. Sometimes in one winter, he might only capture a dozen clear photographs. Yet we owe our knowledge of how each snowflake is unique to his painstaking work. Bentley spent hours upon hours studying the minute beauties in nature, from these lacy flakes to dewdrops and petals.

I’m stunned when I consider the patience and quiet watchfulness of this man. Any attempts at nature journaling with my children has usually resulted in doodles of fantastic sci-fi creatures and the profundity of our observations is wrapped up in my hurried exclamations: “Look, guys, this tree is different that the other one!” Nature studies is not my strong suit, and despite well meaning intentions, my children are much more proficient in trampling nature than noticing it.

But Bentley’s work calls to me; begs me to pause, in any way I can.

If he can recollect himself so long as to see the variance in melting drops of snow, what treasure can I find in an ordinary, unremarkable day? What makes today unique?

This reflection really is the best preparation for the next turning of seasons. I used to envision every Lent as taking me deeper into the spiritual life, grounding me in greater graces than before as I make different, harder resolutions from the year before and achieve greater spiritual heights.

Now I see: Lent is more of a return.

How have I gotten off track this year? What unnecessary baggage have I accumulated that should be set aside in this journey? With the blessing of these additional weeks before the Lenten season I ponder: What discoveries about myself, my vocation, and my loved ones can I make during this lull?

When we’re not hastening towards a date, a holiday, or a decision, we have more opportunity to see and understand. February is not an empty in-between; it contains the fullness of a journey, that progresses day by day. This quiet time is a reminder that the meaning of life, that the will of God, is not how we’ll meet the ever-changing future or the final end, but how we carry forth our covenant today.

Fr. Ciszek concludes his searching questions and complaints with this discovery: it is “Not the will of God as we might wish it, or as we might have envisioned it or as we thought in our poor human wisdom it ought to be. But rather the will of God as God envisioned it and revealed it to us each day in the created situation with which he presented us. His will for us was the twenty-four hours of each day: the people, the places, the circumstances he set before us in that time. Those were the things God knew were important…”

If you feel lost in the lull, find your end in today. If you’re mired in worries or chores, discover one gift for you placed in their midst. If you’re tired of winter, force yourself to gaze at one snowflake’s beauty. Let this month be a stop of discovery and a re-commitment to finding beauty and purpose.