As I write this, a meticulous blanket of freshly fallen snow has blanketed His creation in winter white. How beautiful. Perhaps none have celebrated the cold of winter as I have. It has been my favorite time of year. The promise of warm, fragrant fires, the welcoming draw of baked goods, and the anticipation of family gathering to celebrate together.

These things have always warmed me beyond winters chill. Getting out and playing in the snow at any age, keeps you young and vibrant. The times we spent building snow forts, having snowball fights, and making snowmen, especially when the kids were younger, dance back through my memory. Today these memories try to warm what the hearth cannot.

As I survey the beauty of creation out a window which expands to reveal His attention to detail, I am moved that He would care enough to send His one and only Son to endure a cold beyond a deep-winter arctic night. To give up the only son you have is a precious price indeed. To know that many are brought to Him through His death somehow makes tolerable what no parent ever wants to experience.

Being thrust into a fraternity that noone wants to be a member of, is pacified by a peace that only He precipitates. Who can know the pain of this loss, but my Father. His Son died, that my son might live, that my son might die, to bring Him glory.

Father, on this day when we pause to bring you our Thanksgiving, know that though we often visit our grief, we know that You know our loss, and that You have provided for our pain, by the warmth of Your embrace, through the arms of brothers and sisters around the world, and in this place. Glory to You my King. You are God alone.

dad

(no it didn't snow in Slidell, this was written while still in Indiana)