Last week was quite the week, wasn’t it?

Trump 2.0 came in like a freight train. Love it or loathe it, the pace of change was mind-blowing. Executive orders flying, pardons pouring, declassifications swirling, cabinet confirmations galloping apace.

The media was spinning. Social media was buzzing. A petite Episcopal bishop was celebrated… and reviled. Elon Musk was deemed a Nazi… and a great friend of the Jews. It was “The Golden Age of America” and “The End of Democracy.”

And then came the snow.

We didn’t get as much as we thought we might – some sources were predicting 8 to 10 inches – but we got enough. For the first time in seven years, we awoke Wednesday morning to find our yards and streets and rooftops blanketed in beautiful, shimmering white.

It felt like a gift, and I needed it.

I needed the silence. The serenity. The pristine purity. I needed the childlike wonder that snow awakens in most every southern heart. (I say “most” because I know a few hardcore southerners who would rather walk on nails than trudge through snow.)

My daughter, who’s 23 and currently living at home, was 16 when she last saw snow in her front yard. But having lived in the Czech Republic for seven months after high school, she was all set from a wardrobe standpoint. Me? Not so much. I feared my “snow day” would be limited to gazing through the window for lack of proper footwear. But in the 11th hour, I found a pair of long-forgotten rubber boots in the back of the hall closet. They were ancient and ugly, but perfectly functional.

So Amelia and I set off for a walk around the neighborhood. The snow was still fresh and powdery, not yet pressed or slushy or slippery. We walked slowly but smoothly, arm in arm, marveling at the dazzling scene around us.

Pigeon Point had been utterly transformed – a bona fide winter wonderland. The neighbors were delighted. We saw bundled-up couples walking hand in hand down the street, two Golden retrievers frolicking in the live oak park, a teenager riding a boogie board behind a slow-moving ATV.

We walked to the boat landing, wondering if the winter-gold spartina grass would be tipped in white. It wasn’t. The pluff mud was snowy, though, so that was fun.

Walking in fresh snow is a bit like walking on dry sand. You don’t have to go fast or far to get tired. Not a daily long-distance walker like her mother, Amelia was ready to head home soon enough. I dropped her off and decided to walk a bit longer, alone.

I typically do 5 miles every morning, for exercise, but this was a very different experience. I walked slowly, gently – with no thought of burning calories or toning muscles – and I didn’t have my air pods with me, so I didn’t listen to a podcast like I usually do. I didn’t even try to corral my thoughts into a column – my normal MO when I don’t have something in my ears.

I just walked.

On Audusta Street, I came across a little girl on a bike with training wheels. Her parents were rolling her along, and her face was just shining. “Her first snow?” I asked. “It is!” her mother replied, and her face was shining, too. Such a beautiful young family, I thought. Such a beautiful morning. My heart was full.

Back at my desk later – it was Wednesday, after all – I quickly forfeited my newfound peace, toppling into one of the week’s myriad controversies, when I came across the entire sermon of Rev. Mariann Edgar Budde, Bishop of Washington, that she’d preached at the National Prayer Service the day before. I found it inspiring and profound and not at all what I’d expected based on the fiery comments littering social media.

The short, controversial clip making the rounds was the bishop’s plea to the president to “have mercy” on certain people rendered vulnerable by his policies – particularly illegal immigrants and transgender children – but that plea was a very small fragment of an excellent sermon addressing the “culture of contempt” that threatens to bring this country to its knees. Bishop Budde offered helpful instruction for fighting back against that culture – by honoring the dignity of every human being, speaking honestly in public and private discourse, and cultivating personal humility.

Deeply moved – and still high on my snow-walking energy – I immediately posted the sermon on my FB page, with this commentary:

“If all you’ve heard of this sermon is the very end – the clip going around, under inflammatory headlines like ‘Trump seethes as Bishop calls him out’ – I beg you to listen to the entire thing. This is not a ‘calling out.’ This is fifteen minutes of wisdom, encouragement, grace, and love. I had resisted listening because I resented the way that short clip had been used as a grenade by both sides of our political divide. I don’t need another political grenade. I DID need this sermon.”

Reader, if you’re anything like me – i.e. you maintain a diverse FB friends list – you can probably guess what happened next. Let’s just say it’s now three days later, the snow is melting outside my window, and people are still arguing on my Facebook page.

But hope springs eternal, even in the bleak midwinter. This morning, I came across the following poem. The sentiment it expresses just might save us. Along with the occasional snow day.

 

SMALL KINDNESSES

By Danusha Laméris

 

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”