Osler's Razor

My home is awash in snow now, and it will be here for weeks. It fell and fell, and now there are canyons we drive through, peeking around the corners.

Yesterday I was skiing over the snow next to a lake close to my house. The ski paths have two parts. To the right, there are a pair of grooves. Next to that is a broader area, flattened down into a broad snow road. They accommodate two different kinds of Nordic skiing: to the right (in the grooves) are the "classic" skiers, and to the left are the "skate" skiers.

The styles are very different. I am a "classic" skier, which means that I trudge along in the tracks. Well, "trudging" isn't the right word, exactly, when I am doing it well-- instead, it is step and glide, step and glide, hearing the little whoosh of the snow beneath me.

The skaters are different: more elegant, faster, and rhythmic.  A small group of teens will whip by me, striding in unison, like a little flock of birds taking joy in flight. Their motions seem effortless, and they make only the quiet sounds of a perfect engine.

Sometimes, faith feels like one or the other. Sometimes, it is a joyful part of the rhythm of life, fast and soaring. Then other times (and I am in one of them) it is more like the trudging in the grooves, working up a small incline that is tougher than it looks.