The Slow Dance of Snowflakes
I’m lying on the floor of our exercise room, winded from PT and lamenting the endless aches taking up residence in my post-pregnancy body. A makeshift office setup smushes against the yoga mat, whispering reminders to me to finish my reading, respond to my classmates, double-check my syllabus. And then the checklist-maker in my mind sets off a chorus of ping notifications:
“I better mentally prepare now for another week of e-learning.”
“Did I finish my Bible study chapters for session one?”
“I should really write up a daily schedule for Blue’s so he doesn’t get behind in his training.”
“Shoot, I need to reschedule the kids’ dentist appointment!”
My soul starts to feel smushed too, and within seconds, my questions slip from practical to existential:
“I can’t believe I’m back in school—am I being reckless?”
“Will this whole process bear any fruit?”
“Can my foggy mom brain really tune in to philosophy and epistemology?”
“If I can’t do all the things anymore, is my family going to be okay?”
“…Am I going to be okay?”
As I lie here—literally and metaphysically catching my breath—I find myself watching the snow drift past the window. It’s like one of those Magic Eye pictures from the 90s: at first, all I can see are a thousand flakes falling from the sky, settling into the earth as they were made to do. But then I focus on just a few snowflakes—the ones closest to my window—and I notice: they aren’t all flowing downward. Some swirl to the left. Some pivot sharply to the right. And once in a while, it’s hard to tell whether they are descending at all, or if, somehow, they’re magically falling upward, back to the clouds they once called home.
All I know for certain is that the snow moves softly and patiently, like notes in a symphony written by the Great Composer. And I wonder…
If snowflakes had souls, would they fret over the swirling? Would they cry out, “Lord, I don’t want to move to the left or right! My purpose is down below, where I can be shaped into a snowman or melt on the nose of a child in wonder. Come on, God. Do You see me? I’m not where I’m meant to be.”
But this is the miracle of nature: it never presumes upon Yahweh. It moves slowly, in seasons, wherever it is directed. It turns pink, green, orange, or white at precisely the moment the Artist lifts His paintbrush. It trusts the process, working in harmony with all of creation to be part of something greater than its individual elements.
So maybe I’ll pretend to be a snowflake today—peacefully swirling up and around when I’d prefer to fly straight down. Maybe I won’t presume to know the best path forward, or celebrate God’s faithfulness only when He conducts the orchestra to play my favorite song. Maybe I’ll trust that I am a small part of a grand narrative—of “on earth as it is in heaven” becoming more real today than it was yesterday. And maybe I’ll believe that, if I’m swirling in the air instead of resting on solid ground, I am put here with intention by the God of the universe.
Maybe He’s not hurrying me to a destination. Maybe the slow, trusting dance is the whole point.
So I remain on the floor a little longer.
I stare in wonder at the swirling snow.
I listen to the song my Composer is writing.
And I open my heart to all that could be.
Maybe, for today, that is enough.
