by Nan Jones
A six-inch blanket of snow covered our mountain in the color of pristine. The trees and forests, rooftops and vehicles were painted in thick white frosting — beauty beyond description.
White, like our robes of righteousness that covers all shame and makes all things new.
White, like the glorious light of God’s Presence. Luminous. Incandescent.
Beauty Beyond Description
I started out on my daily walk. The snowplow had gone past our house a little earlier, making the trek a bit easier. The wonder of this snow touched my heart as I took in the flawless landscape around me.
I rounded the curve and approached the pine canopy arching across our road. I noticed that the snowplow’s blade had scraped beyond the pavement into the edge of the meadow. The plow dug in deep, disturbing the white perfection. Large chunks of snow rolled over, revealing mud and debris and long-forgotten pine needles.
My mind filled with thoughts about my faith journey.
How on the surface things appear smooth, maybe lovely to others.
But underneath there is debris and long-forgotten wounds that muddy the soil of my heart.
From time to time, the Lord plows through my heart, the sword of His Spirit digging deep, exposing what lurks beneath my white robe of righteousness. Things I had forgotten about. Things I thought had been overcome. Things that were yet to be surrendered to His lordship.
It’s not pretty — that muddy mess beneath the immaculate robe He has clothed me in.
But once the mess is exposed, God can do His work.
The ground dug into and rolled over by the snowplow will respond like garden soil tilled by the gardener. Fallow ground hardened by drought will revive as the snow melts into streams of living water for a thirsty earth.
The soil in my heart will do the same.
The debris exposed by His love will break down into nourishment for new growth in my faith journey. The long-forgotten wounds will be healed by the light of His glory, creating fertile soil for the things of God to flourish.
Come Spring I Will See Clearly
Come Spring, I suspect there will be a new cluster of wildflowers thriving on the edge of the meadow where once a muddy mess clung to the edges of overturned clumps of snow.
I suspect the fruit of His Spirit will thrive in me where long-forgotten wounds and debris of the heart clung to the hem of His garment yearning to be whiter than snow.
Once my winter of the soul has passed.