The kids pray for it, talk about it, angst over whether their schools will be closed, or delayed.
Matt and I lay in bed laughing above the open vent where we can hear all their conversations, where the dialogue is something like:
Noah: “I hope we’re off tomorrow. I want to go outside and play. And I’m going to download a new game to the iPad. And I’m going to sleep late.”
Jesse: “I’m going to make a snow LOBSTER!”
Matt and I are punching each other’s arms under the covers, giggling because one of the many quirks of this old house is the perfect way in which the sound travels upward like a waft of smoke through a chimney. We hear the boys’ plans and semi-quiet scheming, and for a moment we think about how little we were once, too. It’s as if we also have a snow day.
Noah and Jesse love the pressure of the hard, crunchy snow on their bodies, and they love the feel of it against their faces as they are towed behind the 4-wheeler on the flat, slippery sled Matt tows. They screech with laughter, and for as long as they last, they can scream as loud as they want and no one reprimands them. I am glad for snow days, where the whole of the outside world is cold as ice and our small space is warm with fires and popcorn and our communion. I love that on these days that are cold as ice, I bring my children in toward myself and hold them under my wings, as God has taught me how (Psalms 91:4).
I am a child born of Wisconsin, in the month of January, of Scottish and Icelandic and English descent. Cold runs in my blood. So on these days, cold as ice and dubbed with the nomenclature of “Polar Vortex;” those days that have become the harbinger of dreams for school children the country over, I love the smallness of my children in the vastness of this storm. I am grateful for how the white expanse reminds me of the order of a universe I do not control. I love the large white-ness of a storm bigger than us, and one that brings us together.
I love these things, cold as ice.