Osler's Razor

There is a way in which our culture’s connection between advent and snow is very odd. The events we celebrate, of course, occurred in a climate much like that we see in Texas, not amid waves of ice and snow. When we spray a window with fake frost or send cards with winter scenes, we as a culture are in some small way distancing ourselves even further from the deep and mysterious events in a desert thousands of years ago.

All this is true. Yet I still long for snow each December, and there is a way in which Advent is not made real until there is that familiar crunch under my boot.

To those of us from the North, snow could be a difficult master. It came down with beauty and such gentleness, but each flake added to a mass which changed our lives. Everything slowed down: You cannot walk fast, drive fast, get anywhere very fast, once the snow is on the ground. Sometimes, the world even slowed to a stop—school would close, and we would stay home with the smell of bread or cookies in an oven, in a quiet world indoors and out. Quiet, because snow created a hush and muffled the harshness of our lives.

On a cold December day, the day of the first big snow, we would have a different routine. We would revert to the 1800’s, and gather by the fireplace to tell stories and read.

Snow forced the spirit of Advent upon us. We would want to go out, want to do our Christmas shopping, want to speed up our lives. The snow did not let us and forced us into quiet contemplation. “Stay here,” the Creator’s creation would say, “Stay here with Me,” and so we did.