I once lived in a place where frost was a newsworthy event. In that place, it was not really necessary to own cold-weather gear. We had a show shovel, but I'm not sure why. Yes, there were old legends of days when there was accumulating snow - but those were only legends.
I once lived in a place where warm was the norm.
I thought about that place a lot last night . . . as the temperature plunged to seventeen degrees below zero.
Some friends who live nearby said that it was twenty-one below at their house, so I'm not really complaining. Still, it was a remarkable evening. The high temperature yesterday was about ten above. At the conclusion of our Christmas Eve service, it was seven below. By the time we drove home, it was eleven below. Then we lost another degree or so every hour. Just after midnight, it hit seventeen below - and we went to bed wondering if maybe it would go even lower. And maybe it did; I simply stopped watching at that point.
Amazingly, when we woke up this morning it was fifteen degrees above zero. Not to belabor the obvious, but that means that in the course of a few hours last night, the temperature actually rose over thirty degrees.
My family tells me that I should have been a meteorologist. I find this sort of thing absolutely fascinating.
Granted, it was still cold when I shoveled snow for a couple of hours this Christmas morning. On the other hand, it felt downright balmy compared to the bitter cold last night. The twenty-mile-an-hour south wind was only slightly miserable this morning; last night, that same wind would have been almost deadly.
Perspective really does matter. I was thankful this morning for the relative warmth - and it wasn't anywhere near thirty-two degrees. How could I possibly feel good about fifteen degrees?
There's a woman at church who always jokes with me about the winter weather. She tells me amazing stories about "the winter of 1949." That was the year, she claims, when the snow was higher than the telephone poles, when kids were out of school for weeks at a time, when cows wandered freely throughout the county because the snow was much higher than the fences, and when jumping off the roofs of houses into the snow was the most fun of all. I don't believe she's making any of this up. As bad as the weather gets, she always says with a smile: "Well, at least it's not the winter of '49."
Though I must say . . . I'm beginning to wonder.
Under the sway of the white witch, Narnia is described with this sad word: it's always winter, but never Christmas. We're having quite a winter this year. Already. But at least we get Christmas! I hope you have a blessed one!
And stay warm . . .
Amazingly, when we woke up this morning it was fifteen degrees above zero. Not to belabor the obvious, but that means that in the course of a few hours last night, the temperature actually rose over thirty degrees.
My family tells me that I should have been a meteorologist. I find this sort of thing absolutely fascinating.
Granted, it was still cold when I shoveled snow for a couple of hours this Christmas morning. On the other hand, it felt downright balmy compared to the bitter cold last night. The twenty-mile-an-hour south wind was only slightly miserable this morning; last night, that same wind would have been almost deadly.
Perspective really does matter. I was thankful this morning for the relative warmth - and it wasn't anywhere near thirty-two degrees. How could I possibly feel good about fifteen degrees?
There's a woman at church who always jokes with me about the winter weather. She tells me amazing stories about "the winter of 1949." That was the year, she claims, when the snow was higher than the telephone poles, when kids were out of school for weeks at a time, when cows wandered freely throughout the county because the snow was much higher than the fences, and when jumping off the roofs of houses into the snow was the most fun of all. I don't believe she's making any of this up. As bad as the weather gets, she always says with a smile: "Well, at least it's not the winter of '49."
Though I must say . . . I'm beginning to wonder.
Under the sway of the white witch, Narnia is described with this sad word: it's always winter, but never Christmas. We're having quite a winter this year. Already. But at least we get Christmas! I hope you have a blessed one!
And stay warm . . .