A Teaspoon of Hope {A Bigger Picture Moment}

The wind is blowing more than the snow is falling, and it's colder than the underside of an iceberg out there.  The emergency light has come on over the storage shed; a blink of electricity from all the gusting winds must have tripped it earlier.  In its yellow orb, the flurries are attacking like moths before being dashed to the ground. 

I let the curtain fall closed before I return to bed, snugging covers up to my cheeks.   Even though I'm a realistic adult, I still get sad when I wake up to no snow on the ground.  No matter that the weatherman only forecast a scant dusting.  Hope is stubborn in me.  At least until sunrise. 

There's not time to fall back asleep because a first-grader on Christmas break crawls into my blankets, yawning and warm.  Mia brings a mellow sweetness with her.  It wafts around her head when she tucks it into my neck, and I breathe gratefully.  Fresh air is made of the molecules surrounding children. 

It didn't snow last night, mama.  The ground is still grassy.

I know, baby.  But there are flurries out there if you look right at the lightbulb over the shed's door. 

She shuffles to the window, ready to be amazed.  I hate for her to go, both because of the absence of fresh air when she leaves and the way her hope is about to be deflated.  I still feel the limpness in my own chest, and I'd rather see her with floating fullness for a bit longer. 

Oh!  Is that really snow I see?  It's glittering!  It's snowing, mama, it's snowing!

All I can see of Mia are her white pajamas, reverse-silhouetted against the darkness.  She is minus a head; the curtains swallow her face, the better to show her the blowing snow.  Then she starts hopping up and down.  She runs down the hallway, finding other windows to stare from. 

Lauren joins us, rubbing her eyes, clinging to blankies three-deep at her chest. 

Lauren, it's snowing!  Come see! 

When it's light, we have no choice but to go out in our pajamas and coats, becoming flecked with flurries and frozen by wind.  There is only a teaspoon of snow holing up in the warmth of the grass.  It looks as if a large cotton ball has been gently torn apart on our porch.  That is all.  There is not much. 

Oh, but it is enough.  This is their hope, fulfilled. 

It seems like my expectations were simply too extravagant; I almost missed the snow for the disappointment.  I step into my furry, purple slippers and out into the blizzard of tiny proportions.  There is snow-dust clinging to my heels and my flannel pants are flapping against the wind: percussion for the parade.  We march and squeal and catch snowflake babies on our tongues. 

And the piece de resistance?  We have hot cocoa with marshmallows for breakfast.  Even the smallest of blizzards deserves no less.





Linking up with Hyacynth at Undercover Mother for this week's Bigger Picture Moment.  Care to join us?