It snowed last week here in the nation’s capital, and everything shut down. This storm was unusual, not so much for the amount of snow (about five inches where I live) but for the several inches of sleet that piled on top of the snow and then promptly froze into a solid mass, like concrete.
The storm dumped much more snow farther north and much more ice farther south and west, causing massive power outages, taking down trees, and the like. The storm even spawned a handful of tornadoes. Well over 100 deaths have been attributed to the storm, which already has its own Wikipedia page.
Chances are, unless you live out West or in Southern Florida, you have your own stories about this storm.
In my neighborhood, the storm was a significant inconvenience, but hardly rose to the level of a catastrophe. Almost two weeks later, much of my street still has not been plowed. Sidewalks are mostly un-shoveled and impassable. Street parking is nearly impossible except after great excavations. My children were out of school for a solid week, followed by several days of delayed starts. They are only just now returning to something like a normal schedule.
Meanwhile, the piles of snow and ice stacked everywhere give every indication that they intend to hang around well into March.
But this is not really a column about the weather, however noteworthy that has been.
Scheduled holidays – Christmas break, for example – have a way of filling up with the usual business of carefully planned activities. But the unplanned suspension of the rhythms of ordinary life that we’ve had, this past week and more, had the opposite effect. Instead of our days filling up with long-planned activities, these days have been a time of extended and delightful spontaneity.
The night before the snow began to fall, Mass at the local parishes was unusually crowded as families and neighbors who rarely attend Saturday night anticipatory packed in to meet their Sunday obligation before the weather set in. One local parish even added an extra Saturday night Mass at the last minute to accommodate everyone.
It is one thing to see the usual faces at your usual Sunday Mass time. But to see the whole parish crowding into the church as if it were Christmas Eve created a palpable sense of real solidarity. There we all were, at an unusual hour, to do the last but most important thing in preparation for the coming storm.
Neighbors, at least where I live, got an extra opportunity to help one another out. Checking in before the storm, chiseling one another out from the ice afterward. Friends trudged down the half-cleared street to share an impromptu happy hour while the kids sledded down the hill. Our hoard of supplies (mostly snacks and hot cocoa) was quickly depleted.
There’s something wholesome in the way a community shows its character when the comforts and self-sufficiency of modern life are threatened (just gently, but enough to notice) by the forces of nature. The need for solidarity – in the parish, between neighbors, etc. – rises to the surface. There is a delight in being consciously aware that my neighbor needs me and I need him – and that we are in this together.
When reminders of this sort come without too much danger to life or limb, it is a grace. The superfluous nature of so much that fills our everyday lives becomes evident. So much busyness, even busyness about good things, comes to a halt, and we suddenly see what we must have and what we can do without.
One of the joys of having a wood-burning fireplace is that, when the weather turns really nasty, simply remaining inside, toasty and warm, feels like an achievement. One is accomplishing a feat of survival. It is also an incitement to gratitude for things otherwise taken for granted; things like a roof over one’s head, electricity, and central heating.
But there is also a kind of excitement in having to do without all our usual comforts and conveniences (again, so long as the danger is not too great). I could sense my son’s disappointment that the power never went out, which meant the headlamps and flashlights went unused.
One of the first things the children did when they raced out into the new fallen snow was to build shelter in the form of snow forts and tunnels. We already have a house; they wanted to see if they could build their own. One of my neighbor’s older boys built an igloo and slept in it over night for the sheer fun of the thing. He did it once, but not twice.
I suspect there is more in this than thrill seeking or a boyish sense of adventure. It’s more than just play. Or maybe play is more serious than we think. Some kinds of play allow us to test ourselves, to test our limits. For young people especially (but not only the young) stretching oneself like that is an important and healthy way to gain confidence and grow.
Our way of life insulates us from contingency and precariousness. We seek, and often find, security and comfort. At least we find it often enough to grow to expect it. But somehow, we know that the artifice of control and stability is, to some degree, an illusion. This realization, when it catches us by surprise, can be terrifying. But it can also be bracing.
As Pope Benedict XVI told a group of pilgrims from his native Germany early in his pontificate, “We were not created for an easy life, but for great things, for goodness.” Sometimes – often – this is a painful lesson to learn. But sometimes the heavens open and we are offered an unexpected chance to learn the joy of life’s contingencies (and God’s sustaining grace), sipping from a warm mug in front of a crackling fire.
Ice and snow, bless the Lord.
