I woke up to the clattering sound of an ice storm. Lying in bed, I went over all the things to get done—a fast-approaching deadline at work, groceries I needed to buy, and laundry waiting and getting wrinkly in the dryer. I poured myself a cup of coffee and looked out the window. The sun was coming up and the sleet was still coming down. My dog, Soda, waited at the door, needing to go out, so I grumbled a little and bundled up. Putting on his halter and leash, then my mittens, and lastly my hat, we headed out the door.
Outside, details of every living thing and every other thing glistened in the rising sun. Soda pulled a little on the leash, and we started on the trail that my husband snowplowed for us to walk on—only now everything had turned to ice. “Slow, slow,” I said. I took tiny careful steps and waited in between. The deer-netting barricade around last year’s garden had become amazing art, a cascading series of twinkles and flashes; the old elm on the property line sparkled. “It’s beautiful, Soda,” I said. “Just beautiful.”
We made our way to the driveway, which I realized almost too late had become a treacherous slide, so we circled back, inching our way slowly and carefully, discovering the gifts of the storm—ephemeral blessings—that I was thankful to see.
Lord, this morning I woke feeling overwhelmed with everything I had to do, but now I’m ready to take on the day, slow enough to see the dazzling details that Your hand has so wonderfully crafted.
—Sabra Ciancanelli
