For the first time since we moved to Charlotte, we are experiencing a “real” snow. Not the usual tentative dusting that vanishes by noon, nor the dreaded “wintry mix” of ice and slush that defines a Southern winter, but inches—actual, honest-to-goodness inches of snow.
It is breathtaking. The world has shifted into a different perspective. Before the hardcore attempt to reclaim the roads, everything is a pristine, unbroken white. The wind catches the flakes, swirling them into a living filter over our natural lens, softening the edges of the city and the trees alike.
My mind is already racing with the joy of the day ahead: the photographs I’ll get of my grandchildren and their new puppy discovering this frozen playground, and the warmth waiting inside. I am dreaming of the smell of homemade banana bread in the oven and the steam from mugs of rich hot chocolate. A pot of chili is simmering in my mind, paired with thick wedges of cornbread baked in our well-seasoned cast iron skillet.
What I find most fascinating about this new landscape is that this wondrous beauty and potential for fun were all created in total silence. Unlike the roar of a summer thunderstorm or the howling of autumn winds, the snow arrives like a secret. Perhaps the snow is telling us something about the way things—and we—should be.
We live in a world that equates volume with importance. We are taught that to make an impact, we must shout, broadcast, and bustle. We must make noise. Yet, the snow proves that the most profound transformations can happen quietly. It reminds us that our greatest growth and our most beautiful contributions to the world don’t need a fanfare; they can be built in the quiet moments of reflection and steady, silent effort.
The snow provides a “reset.” By covering the dirt, the unfinished projects, and the mundane grey of the asphalt, it asks us to look at our lives through a lens of grace. It suggests that we, too, should occasionally offer a “white filter” to those around us—covering their flaws and rough edges with a layer of kindness, a blanket of love, allowing a fresh start to emerge.
Today’s silence of the snow creates a forced “Sabbath.” It halts the gears of the city and invites us into the kitchen for chili or out into the yard for play. It tells us that being present with a puppy and a grandchild is a higher calling than the noise of a busy schedule or commerce.
In a world that is far too loud, the snow reminds us that beauty doesn’t need to explain itself. It simply arrives, settles, and changes everything. Maybe we should strive to be more like the snow: transformative, quiet, and deeply, inherently good.
What a beautiful goal … to be more like the snow. Thank you for this Webb
Thank you Jill. Hope you had a wonderful birthday! W.
I love your analogy but unfortunately, our major snow (10 inches) was a week ago. It has turned to ice and has gotten dirty. Where it has melted it’s a muddy mess. I think we definitely need to appreciate the quiet transformative nature of the snowfall and then put on our boots and gloves and do our best to try to keep things pure and clean.
Thanks Te. Hope you had a great birthday! W.
Well said, Webb. Thinking about that chili and cornbread now…..
Thanks Bill. I need to chop onions soon. W.