Like the rest of North Texas, we are home today. I like it. There’s a conspiratorial satisfaction to being hunkered down and knowing that everyone else is, too. Occasionally a lone individual will tromp carefully past, bundled up and braced against the cold, but mostly the sidewalks are as deserted as the streets.

The freezing drizzle hits the windows with a silvery sound. The suburban landscape spreads out strangely, all white and gray and empty. A singular, solitary loveliness abounds. And as I type that, I grin – knowing that my rhapsodic appreciation is a direct result of the rarity of winter weather ‘round here.

I was enjoying the view earlier, sipping hot coffee, mesmerized by songbirds – their feathers plumped out like teensy down jackets – at the feeder. The deliciousness of an unexpected Sabbath and an uncommon flavor of beauty had me cocooned, snuggled into restful appreciation.

Then it hit me: the stark outside seemed like such a gift to me specifically because I was inside.

Memories of Snowmaggedon remain fresh in my mind – I know very, very well that “inside” is not necessarily a respite from the elements. Without power, with water pipes exploded, inside can become an extension of winter savagery.

But when there is electricity – and therefore heat, and working pipes – inside becomes a haven from which a frigid outside can be enjoyed.

This perspective doubles catalysts for gratitude:

The ice-rain looks lovely, because I am sheltered from it – as do the icicles formed by the chill air, because heated air surrounds me.

I get to enjoy a snow day – because I get to experience it from inside my home, where the lights are on and the heater is working and there is fresh water at the turn of a tap.

I’ve just finished reading through the book of Psalms again. Do you know how many times the Psalms name God as a “haven” – a “shelter” – a “refuge from the storm”? Over and over again. God’s faithfulness to provide respite and covering is one of God’s most unmistakable characteristics.

The Psalms spell it out for us: winter weather will come. Earthquakes – fires – storms – they are a given. But God is the haven. God is the shelter. God is the refuge from the storm. 

The Psalms don’t stop there. Betrayals will come. Heartbreaks – grief – crushing disappointments – they are a given. But God is the haven. God is the shelter. God is the refuge from the storm. 

And the Psalms go even further. Exhaustion will come. Despair – doubt – the relentless grind of the everyday – they are a given. But God is the haven. God is the shelter. God is the refuge from the storm. 

What I need to know, and what the Psalms are consistent in telling me: God outlasts all of it. God outlasts not just the dramatic aberrations and climactic assaults but also the slow, creeping indifferences. God outlasts everything.

Today – this snow day – reminds me forcefully: even at its best, my home can provide only limited, physical shelter. To be safe – to be protected – I need God.

I am praying to take note of all the reminders that this snow day offers me, that I might celebrate my need for God and God’s faithfulness to meet that need, all day… 

When I look outside and thrill to the stark beauty… 

When I snuggle up with a book that I can read because I have lamp, that works, at my elbow… 

When I cook dinner for my family…

I am praying that all these physical blessings will point me to the spiritual blessing that is sovereign and source for every blessing: God is the haven. God is the shelter. God is the refuge from the storm. 

On snow days, on blistering hot summer days – on days of illness and days of health – on celebratory days and grieving days – every single day, from today until eternity, God is the haven. 

God is the shelter. 

God is the refuge from the storm.

Amen.