The snowflakes keep falling from the sky. Snow has fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow*. The sky seems to have settled into a permanent shade of chalky gray. Not a shade I would want to paint my walls, exactly, but it is a still, calm color. The snowdrifts are feet high, not inches high. I look up at the sky and down at the ground and straight out my windows and I see the same whitish shade. It is punctuated only by brown tree branches and the faint color of neighborhood houses. It is not the winter wonderland often seen in photographs, a snowy world where the trees turn white with icy sparkles. Instead, its a bit like living in a large milk carton.
I am trying to be fine with the repetition of each white day. There are days that feel leisurely and slow and a bit like living in a candle lit Hallmark commercial, with warm stews simmering on the stove and family gathered together. There are other days that feel like I’ve awoken in a white walled asylum and should just don an orange jumpsuit. And find mini-jumpsuits for the small inmates. The sameness can make me restless.
And yet, every snow fall is different. Every snow flake has a different size and form. Every snow storm has a different atmospheric influence and temperature. The vast whiteness has a form. The canvas stretching across in front of me is composed of millions of particles, all unique.
And there is something refreshing about new. About different. About individuality and love.
The snowflakes fall, looking the same, but they are all individual, unique, and fresh with each appearance.
And then there is God who makes it snow, who creates these innumerable snowflakes. Eternal, forever, the same yesterday, today, forever. And new, merciful, loving, and creative every day. God, the one who brings the seasons, is the same at the beginning and end of each season. Eternal God before horrific acts are done to His martyred children, and eternal God after. The God who gives new mercy every morning, welcoming home His children waking in Heaven and giving grace to His church still on Earth.
If Abraham had been in a snowy climate, I think God might have asked him to number the snowflakes instead of the stars in the sky in Genesis 15. Snowflakes and stars and grass and leaves and waves and flowers and people have this repetitive nature. It is fairly difficult (in most cases) to number them and yet every single one is different.
There is comfort in the thought that God never changes and that when mercy is extended it is never revoked. That sameness will keep one’s mind steady in a dizzying world. But that mercy is not just old mercy that never changes. It remains the same, but it is new every single morning. It is fresh, renewing over and over. It is the same and it is new. It is the mercy that holds the souls of men and women who belong to God from the beginning of time and the mercy that lands upon men and women today. It is the fullness of God, giving us grace upon grace, like snow upon snow. Repeating and replenishing at the same time.
“But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. “The LORD is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.” The LORD is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.” (Lamentations 3:21-25 ESV)
*paraphrased from Rossetti