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Whenever Jesus wished to express the Father's great love, He created parables taken from the countryside and its people. Camels, goats, sheep, weather, farmers, widows, landlords- all of these had a place in the stories Jesus used to convey the Father's great love and faithfulness. I believe that Jesus still speaks to us in parables through the everyday people and events that He places around us.
Winter In The Connecticut Hills:
From November through to March it's not uncommon to awaken to a fresh covering of snow blanketing the countryside. Phone calls from friends in neighboring towns start around 7am.
"How much did you get?" they ask.
Paul and I peer outside, searching for the snowman measuring stick we have planted in our backyard.
"Looks like we got about two inches," we tell them. "How much did you get?"
"About eighteen," they say somewhat smugly, as though this somehow places them in higher standing among our neighboring towns.
Paul and I marvel once again how nature often deposits over a foot of snow in one town just three miles away and a mere dusting in another. It reminds me of my coffee cakes that I sprinkle with confectioner's sugar. No matter how hard I try to make my dusting of white sugar even, I always seem to get more in the middle of the cake than on the outside. Perhaps Mother Nature has the same problem with snow.
Throughout the winter our home gets aired out everyday. There's something invigorating about the fresh, crisp morning air as it surges through the house, replacing the stale, over heated, lifeless air that has circulated throughout the night. Within minutes the house fills with a new sense of energy.
This winter ritual begins around 5:30am. (With a house full of German shepherds we seldom get to sleep in.) As each dog takes his turn outside secured to a metal lead, I begin to open doors and windows. Within minutes the temperature inside drops and Paul emerges with teeth chattering as he trails behind me murmuring, "I don't know why I bother putting up the storms windows each year. It's just a waste of time. I might as well just put hinges on our house and be done with it!"
The skies grow dark. The air outside is dressed in steely silence. A storm is brewing. The only sound that can be heard from my window (which is never closed regardless of the weather) is the river coursing through the woods. The chickadees and wood hutches have all taken cover and for a moment I revel in the silence that our early New England ancestors must have known. No car horns, snow blowers or jets sailing overhead.
Paul and I quickly bundle up for a walk around the town square before the storm sets in. We return an hour later, rosy checked. Paul checks the firewood outside making certain that several logs are close by. There's no telling how long a storm will last or if we will loose our electricity.
Within a few minutes, Paul has a roaring fire going in the brick fireplace, flames dancing, sending gentle blasts of warmth out into the living room. The dogs gather around the hearth occasionally raising an inquiring head when a log hisses or snaps.
I serve steamy cups of Mother Valentine's barley and vegetable soup recipe in handmade earthenware mugs that I've bought at the Brookfield Craft Center—a wonderful haven for talented local artists. Along with the soup there are thick slices of crusty wheat bread, made fresh this morning, lathered with fresh butter. Later I will stretch on our extra wide sofa (purchased because it can hold one human and two one-hundred pound dogs. One dog always remains on the floor. ) while Paul snoozes in his leather chair, one of his favorite books open on his lap. The sound of a sharp wind whirling past the corner of the house signals the storm has begun. I peer outside. The streetlights have gone on revealing a flurry of new flakes spiraling down toward the ground.
How very peaceful our valley appears now with its new blanket of down thrown over its slumbering fields. I quickly gather my warm insulated storm coat, my fur trimmed hat and my lined woolen mittens and slip outside. There's nothing as magical as a solitary nighttime walk in a snow storm.
The shepherds quickly gather at my heels. "Don't leave without me," they seem to say. They charge out in front before I can say no, leaping like puppies, eager to romp in the snow. They use their snouts like the blade on a plow to push the snow, creating a large pile they lick as though it was the best of confections. One of the dogs spies a deer, and stands perfectly still. The others quickly sense his attention fixated on the fields below. Lady T. is the first to give chase. The others follow but before they go more than a couple of yards, the deer has slipped away into the woods in one fluid motion. Lady T. is our tracker. She quickly picks up the deer's scent and I must call her back before she disappears as well.
We continue our walk coming to the river that borders our property, coursing through our small valley. We're deep in the woods. The snow has gained intensity. I know I should return to the house but hesitate, savoring the wood's deep silence. I grow very still, waiting.
I am never so fully conscious of God's presence then when I stand in the woods on a winter's night, the snow gently falling, obscuring all evidence of both creature and man until I feel that I stand alone with God. On these special nights, His voice seems as clear as the toll of a church bell. Silence is the portal through which God has spoken to men through the millenniums. I wonder, will He speak to me this night?
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