Blizzard

There is a blizzard warning in the Rice County, where we live. Early this morning, our neighbor's field of tall, brown corn stalks appeared to be last thing on earth before the white oblivion of the bare, snow-covered fields farther south. Throughout the morning, our world shrank. Gradually, a veil of white slowly drew closer to the house as heavily falling snow hid all but the closest rows of corn. Now the corn is a blurry shadow, and I cannot see the woods that stand across the street. Snow piling up against my window is striated with layers of dark and light, recording the different qualities of the snow, the changing moods of this storm, which lie beyond my understanding.

Everything we had planned for the day has mercifully been canceled, except for my plans to bake Lucia buns. Our children will get up in the darkness tomorrow morning, and speaking in whispers, they will put on special clothes and assemble a tray of Lucia buns and hot drinks. Then, lit only by my daughter’s crown of candles, they will slowly walk in and serve us breakfast. In past years, I have struggled between wanting to watch them approach and wanting to open my eyes when they are beside the bed because they are always afraid we will wake up before the appointed moment.

Last night, we celebrated Santa Lucia day in Northfield, and drove home just as the snow was beginning to fall. Dozens of children in white robes filed into the darkened room, glowing with the candles they carried, and singing the familiar Swedish song about light coming into the darkness. The song began to rise from the whole room as the adults joined in, until the whole space was filled with gentle, haunting melody. My mother-in-law, sitting beside me, said that if her father had been there, tears would have been running down his face. I could barely answer her because I thought that a sob might come out instead of words. I believe, in a special way, my children's great-grandparents were there, along with many others.

After all the children had delivered cookies and filed out again, someone flipped on the lights, and we began to sing Swedish carols. First, we listened patiently as a lady explained the translation of the lyrics. As soon as we heard each tune, my mother-in-law and I looked at each other with round eyes and exclaimed with delight, “Oh! It’s that one!” We knew them all. By the time folks were dancing around the Christmas tree, I was singing with unbridled gusto.

My heart still feels full from all that beauty. Like grief, deep joy can make it difficult for me to understand how the world can continue blithely on with all of its regular details. Today, my world can't carry on. Today, because of the blizzard, my world has stopped in awe and delicacy.

Just as I thought I finished this essay, my daughter called out for help with a terrible headache, so it only seems fair to add that some parts of my life are clearly carrying on as usual. That is okay. My cup runs over.