When it comes to snow, J.D. and I are just big kids. We work from home--and still, we pray for snow days. Snow means Christmas, our birthdays, warm stews bubbling away on the stovetop, sledding, cookies, hot chocolate, and that holy, quiet hush that comes over the world and reminds you what it must have been like in ancient times.
Last winter, we didn't get much snow, but what little snow we got, I missed because of bed rest. The night Lulu was born last March, it snowed, and when we woke up the next morning, there was a dusting on the grass that made my heart glad.
But I missed real snow--a good, thick, soft blanket of it. So when I heard we might get an early storm this weekend, I was beside myself. At noon it started to come down, thickly. But it didn't stick. It didn't cover the grass.
And I was disappointed.
J.D. said, "Let's go find some snow." And so we bundled Lu up in her bear suit and drove west out 66, away from DC, through Fairfax and Loudon and Fauquier counties, toward the mountains.
And we found our snow.
It was everything we wanted it to be. The clean smell in the air, the white blanket covering, the quiet hush.
Now we're back home, waiting for cookies to come out of the oven.
And it's still coming down.