I was born and raised in Florida. Growing up, my family would pile in our minivan every winter and drive twelve hours to the quintessentially adorable little ski town of Beech Mountain, North Carolina. We would sled and ski on the slopes regardless of the amount of snow or whether it was manmade or the real thing. We weren’t picky. Snow was snow. Slush and ice didn’t stop us from racing down the slopes.
Each evening we would come home from skiing to devour a piping hot bowl of spaghetti and meatballs or chili. On special nights, we would drive down to the city of Boone and eat at The Daniel Boone Inn. A place where the portions were endless, the menu was nonexistent and the fried chicken tasted divine. Every night ended the same way – with several rounds of Rumy 500, Yahtzee or Trouble. Never TV. Always, time together.
Days not spent on the slopes consisted of hours upon hours outside in the snow building forts, having snowball fights and sledding down the driveway of my grandparent’s chalet.
Clearly, winter doesn’t really exist in Florida. {Granted, that doesn’t stop a true Floridian from donning a winter coat when the temperature drops below 65}. For that reason, these vacations were like a trip to a magical, make-believe land. The beauty and majesty of snow-laden trees and rooftops draped in white were awe-inducing to our little eyes. Snow was special. We didn’t see it often and when we did it meant our family had stepped away from the world. We were all together – no work, no school – just intentional filling of our memory banks.
To this day, whenever snow starts to fall from the sky, I am the first one to run to the window to witness the miracle. There is something sacred and holy about standing beneath the majestic night sky, head turned up to the heavens, gaze fixed on the snowflakes as they fall silently to the ground. The air is crisp and it feels like things are being made new. Serving as a reminder from the Keeper of the storehouse of snow that He can cover all of our dirty, grimy, messiness with pure, white snow.
I know. I know. Anyone reading this in the Northeast or the Midwest could rightfully argue that snow is overrated on yet another cold, February day. I realize that I am absolutely spoiled by the fact that snow here in our little corner of the globe is still special and rare.
We don’t see it often, and when we do, it brings our world to a halt.
Schools close. Offices close. Store shelves are emptied. We hunker down.
We find snow pants with lengths that remind us how fast our littles grow. We dig around for gloves and hats and boots. We pull the sleds down from storage. We grab the camera. We make hot chocolate and chili and invite friends over for sledding and dinner by the fire. And, most importantly, we slow down. We make memories. We laugh. Friends stay the night because the roads are covered in ice. We pop popcorn and watch movies. We bring out extra blankets and pillows. It all feels indulgent and like a sweet, unexpected gift.
Today, as the snow outside is melting and the slush and mud streak my floors, I am grateful for the memories made this past week. I’m thankful for the way our busy lives were paused, even if for the briefest of moments, to fill all of our memory banks to the brim with snow-soaked joy.
