Embracing God's Creation in Winter

“The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.” (Ps. 19:1 NIV)

I was born and raised in Michigan, where winters are cold and snowy. I remember feeling like Randy from A Christmas Story when I was a child, bundled up in so many thick layers that I could barely move. When my husband and I relocated to Northern Virginia with our newborn daughter nine years ago, I thought milder winters would be a relief. And they were–for a time. Then we moved to the real South: Memphis, Tennessee, where we stayed for the next seven years. Winter in Memphis is damp and dreary, like a long Midwestern November. It’s often too chilly to enjoy being outside, and there’s little beauty to recommend the season. Just bare trees and drenching rains and a dampness that seeps into your bones. Summers are equally unenjoyable. The humidity hovers in the 80-90 percent range, with temperatures into the nineties. It looks pretty, but I found it physically unpleasant. Not much of a tradeoff in weather.

We moved back home to Michigan this past fall, and as the leaves turned every shade of gold, orange, and crimson, I felt like my very soul was drinking in the beauty of it. I hadn’t forgotten autumn, but I hadn’t seen her show off her glory in such a way in close to a decade. And then, the first snow fell.

We live a scant half hour from Lake Michigan, so we get a considerable amount of lake effect snow. At some point nearly every day, the air swirls with flakes. Our house sits on four-and-a-half acres of rolling pastures and woods, and the northern border of our property is lined with thickets in which multitudes of birds and small mammals–rabbits, possums–take shelter. Herds of deer and wild turkeys run rampant across our land at all times of day and night.

My favorite mornings are those when I waken to find fresh snow has fallen in the night, and the tree limbs are blanketed in white, calling to mind images of Narnia before the ousting of the White Witch. As the sun rises, it lights up the earth with an ethereal glow. I step outside to fill the birdfeeder, get the mail, or sweep the snow from the porch, and the air is crisp and clean in my lungs. I bundle up my daughters, and we tramp through the snow to the farthest pasture, passing beneath stately cedar trees and through our small apple orchard, over the slopes and past the blueberry and raspberry patches, asleep beneath their own comforters of downy white. It’s magical.

On sunny days (which mean even colder air, thanks to Arctic exposure), I turn my face into the sun or curl up in a patch of light near a window to read or knit, savoring the warmth. I brew hot coffee and peach tea lattes in the afternoons and take full advantage of the two gas fireplaces that grace our living spaces. I layer wool socks and slippers against the chill of the hardwood floors with a smile. At dinner, I light beeswax tapers and enjoy the flickering candlelight against the background of the darkening sky outside.

I have never reveled in the glory of winter this way.

C. S. Lewis wrote in That Hideous Strength,

“Everyone begins as a child by liking Weather. You learn the art of disliking it as your grow up. Noticed it on a snowy day? The grown-ups are all going about with long faces, but look at the children–and the dogs? They know what snow’s made for.”

Earlier this week, as my daughters and I made our daily foray to the back pasture, a light sprinkling of rain began to fall. The temperature had warmed up just a little, and the snow had become perfectly packable. Scooping up a handful, I pressed it into a rough sphere and lobbed it in the direction of my nine-year-old, who gasped in surprise, then delight, and bent to pick up her own handful of wet snow and return the volley. My six-year-old, shrieking, ran away down the slope toward the house, certain at first that she didn’t want to get involved. In less than a minute, though, her wariness was overcome by her natural mischievousness, and she was back, snowball in hand, to join the fray. A little while later, damp and pink-cheeked and breathless with laughter, we all trooped back to the house for hot cocoa.

This season, even with its gray, bitterly cold days that can bring on Seasonal Affective Disorder for so many, has reminded me that we are surrounded by beauty–always. We only need to look for it. In Memphis, I learned to appreciate the rare sight of a flaming maple tree in autumn, the magnolia blossoms as big as dinner plates that thrived in the summer humidity, and the opportunity to puddle-jump during a soaking walk in the winter rain. And when spring arrived in early March, I embraced it whole-heartedly, marveling at the fact that it was never still winter at Easter. I’m sure I’ll be missing that this year.

My point, though, is that I don’t want to be the grown-up with the long face. I want to spend my days noticing the intricacy and artistry of God’s creation and celebrating the One who made it all for us.

Harmony Harkema has loved the written word for as long as she can remember. A former English teacher turned editor, she has spent the past twelve years in the publishing industry. A writer herself in the fringe hours of her working-and-homeschooling mom life, Harmony has a heart for leading and coaching aspiring writers. She is the owner of The Glorious Table and cohost and producer at The Relatable Homeschoolers podcast. Harmony lives in Michigan with her husband and two daughters. You can find her at HarmonyHarkema.com and on Instagram @harmonyharkema.