On Snow and the Promise of Spring

Greg took this picture of Lone Peak the other morning, standing in his bathrobe, knee deep in snow, out in the front yard.  Soon these snow covered peaks will be skirted by the early green of spring.  Now there is my favorite part of any year: snow in the mountains and green here in the valley.  But we're still waiting for that shy season to take hold, and for the last three weeks we've had back to back snow storms.  Any snow country dweller will tell you: This can get depressing--especially after April has already whispered in your ear that she's here.  Of course, my early daffodils heard her and cheerfully shot up three weeks ago.  They've since been hit, over and over, by frigid and fowl weather, and when I walk to the mailbox I can hear them whimpering to me from under the snow.  They'll be fine.  The moisture is good--and we're piling up mountain snow pack which makes for a good water year.  When the good Lord sorts out his weather and decides to send snow, well then, snow's my choice.

General Conference was welcome and needed.  Nourishing and comforting.  To me, conference is like sitting down with a beloved brother or uncle, and feeling his tender arm around my shoulders.  I lean into him and ease back into warm words of wisdom and love.  This weekend, I drank in precious, healing waters I know Heavenly Father wanted me to hear.  He's been feeling after me and is concerned I know, but I'm still bowed down under the weight of grief come again too soon.  If I were a bird, the coyotes would have got me by now.  God understands this need to hide, I'm sure. He waits and watches, arms folded,  a patient smile.  He knows I'll find my balance and open up again, come out into the light.  I will.  Everything in it's time.

  

We cleaned out Gavin's car on Saturday.  Well, Greg did.  I love that man. Afterwards, I stood in the laundry room and hugged a shirt that Gav had left in his trunk . . . how long ago?  Long enough that his smell was missing.  I searched for it, buried my face in that shirt, tried to imagine it.  It wasn't there. But I could feel him in the thin, smooth cotton against my cheek, and I held him tight to my chest and cried.  Hot, yearning tears.  I don't resist them when they come.  In many ways, they're part of what I have left of my boy, and it's good to feel them on my face, taste their salt on my lips.

Today, I loved these words from President Uchdorf:

We need the refining lessons of the journey 

to craft our character 

and purify our hearts.