Thursday, March 7, 2013

Then Came the Snow

I woke up briefly yesterday morning, before the sun, and peeked out the window before crawling back into bed. It had snowed, alright. The streets were glassy. It was dark and still and that's when I knew for sure that I'd jumped the gun with my premature frustration over our wimpy "storm".

It was no blizzard, but it was something.

Calvin tip-toed in at 6:32 and whispered, "Mommy? We have a 2-hour delay. You can sleep in."

I'm so for real. This is how my household operates. The child rises first and checks the tv (I'd tipped him off the night before) then tells Mama to turn off her alarm clock.

Why was I ever afraid to be a Mom???

We lounged and played and decided walking to school was the right thing to do.

I've missed walking to school. We walked almost every day in the fall, passing through the middle- school bus-stop like a caravan of Olympic athletes or Disney characters or something, the shortest parade you'll ever see, the gangly kids with too-big feet and messy hair throwing high fives and hugs like penny candy.

They're never dressed for the weather, they eat potato chips for breakfast.

We don't see the biggers on our walk, but we pass their crumbling homes; walk down their buckled sidewalks. This is our neighborhood, too. We come together fumbling and reckless and broken. We smile back. We wave a thumbs-up to the lady screaming from her door, "30 days since I've had a smoke! A whole month!" We fit right in. No one seems to hold our shiny new house against us.

We keep walking, Calvin talks about his "lucky" friend who gets to stay inside for recess because he shows up to school in shorts while a Winter Storm Warning crawls across the bottom of every screen. Of course I want to track this little boy down and buy him bags of pants and socks and boots and hooded sweatshirts. I want to leave laundry detergent on his front stoop with five sleeves of quarters. I want to bake loaves of bread and boil up bubbling pots of soup. I want to read books to him and tuck him in.

But it's 10 o'clock in the morning, so we just keep walking.

We walk to the school where this boy is no exception and I feel that familiar rising up on the inside - the strangest kind of peace rolling joyful and sure - that God Himself walks the halls, the sidewalks, the city blocks. He walks South down the hill past the houses that get dark then darker. It's where He wants to be. It's what He chooses. So why would we worry?

Back home, I shovel my twiggy forearms clean off while Silas sits in a tiny lawn chair watching. We meet a new neighbor and I sweat inside my freakishly large mittens. I daydream gardens and spring and believe that I might be one heavy scoop away from 911.

((Any guesses how long the garden hoe lasted in Siley's hands?))

The evening is left-overs and books and 5 people on one couch.

It's the kind of day that just stays good.

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