Melting snow.

The snow came late in the spring. Even for the West, it was an unusual sight to see so much snow on the mountaintops. The white, draped over the purple rock, with the cloudless blue sky above and emerging green grass below was vibrant and inspirational. Having it look this way the first time my family traveled to the West was a complete gift. It also reminded me of an important spiritual truth.

The snow was a gift, and its arrival inspirational, but throughout the summer the snow melted until it was gone. But was it? I could no longer see the majestic snowfall on the mountains, but the melted snow was now in the basins feeding the streams that meander down toward the valley. Once in the valley, the water continued to descend seeking the lowest places it could. Soon, usually dry streambeds were flowing once again.

I confess that I like the spiritual snowfalls that remind me of God’s magnificence. Those moments when you shake your head, as if to awaken from a spiritual slumber, to remember how outrageous it is there’s a God, that God created this world, and loves each and every one of us. I could stand and stare at such magnificence, but it doesn’t last. Like the snow in the mountains, religious “highs” melt away. We can mourn or reminisce, but the experience this summer reminds me that I mustn’t think the snow is gone. The snow has simply melted, filling basins, feeding streams, working its way out of the mountains and into the valleys. Lower and lower the water flows, filling once-dried streambeds and finding its way into the cracked earth below.

I need to give thanks for the majestic moments of snow when “God shows off,” but I must also celebrate its melting and descent from the highs to the lows. As the streams carry the water down, I must allow my heart to carry God’s presence into my life, knowing that it will not stop until it finds the lowest places, the once-dried steam beds and cracked soil of my soul. 

I suppose it’s a type of spiritual gravity. Like gravity itself, there’s no point in fighting it, but it’s funny how often we try to do just that. We try to control where the water flows, to limit the places it goes. Today I want to allow the water to flow as low as it can go, to find a home even in my darkest and most arid places. I believe the water will turn cracked earth into moist clay. That's the daily resurrection I celebrate today.

(Sawtooth Mountains - summer 2011 by Ashley Pardoe)