It was a snow day. You know the kind.
The dead of January arrived and, if I remember right, we had woken up to over a foot of snow frosting the streets. Smooth. Clean. Glittering.
I suppose it didn’t “technically” count for me. I was still in preschool (“pretty school”, as I liked to call it) and I was smack dab in the middle of those old glory days where we still only attended part time, #bless. My little 5 year old mind didn’t grasp the concept of 8 hour days yet, but I reveled in surprise vacation day nonetheless.
Mom can probably take most of the credit for that, as she was exceptionally good at snow days. Per her infallible doctrine; dawns such as these were meant for pajamas, waffles, cartoons, wet socks, dry blankets, and every excuse to take a quick break from the world and remember that we were just kids. Power went out? Cool, grab the camper stove and the board games. Roads are bad? Heck yes, ALL THE NAPS. It’s fifteen degrees? Even better—find your boots and go play. And that day, we played hard.
We were very fortunate children, because the previous snowfall taught us how fun it was to gather up your visiting cousins, pile on a sled, and launch off the icy porch full speed ahead. For the curious: the landfalls were epic and God help us if we needed to get to the hospital. We made snowballs and waged all out war with them. We engineered snow forts (nay, fortresses) of stunning proportions. I made snow angels and got exceptionally upset when the boys stepped in them (ugh, GUYS). We crafted adorable villages of miniature snowmen and promptly ran over them. I pretended to find our dog Sasha in the snow over and over again so I could “rescue” her like that one movie I saw. The best part of all was when we had exhausted every possible mode of play and stampeded inside for lunch—because Mom made spaghetti.
Oh, spaghetti, yes lawd. Deliciously thawing from the inside out via warm belly after romping around the arctic backyard like savages. Finger and toe-cicles are best recovered under the influence of pasta, and in my humble opinion garlic bread should be considered its own brand of therapy. The best part of that day came from loving hands that made us a meal, and every time I look back on it I remember that winter was often made most wonderful by how we warmed up.
I wouldn’t call that snow unusual, because Midwest weather is notoriously unpredictable. However, what most people don’t know about Missouri winters is that they spend most of their time being rather ugly. Mud. Gray. Naked, dead trees. Ditches full of leaves and muck. Ice and rain, taking turns. Snow happens every once in a while when the weather decides to do something pretty. I usually revel in them because the cold outside means time spent with soft blankets and long novels inside. But some winters are colder than others, I guess.
I’m tired. And I’m starting to realize that I’ve been running on fumes for a few years now. I left a job I liked because I spent more time hiding in the bathroom fighting dry heaves and merciless hives than actually working. The new job was slowly progressing until I gradually realized I was being sent on corporate trips not because of any professional merit...but to train my replacements. I’ve spent an unreasonable amount of time boo-hooing about how people are rude and life isn’t fair but if I’m also being honest about it—6 interviews and 6 rejections are starting to get to me a little bit. I’ve spent the time I have left unable to get out of bed and mustering up the gumption to walk into work. I used to put my self worth in beauty. I’m starting to realize that I traded that for an idol of employment. Same insecurity, different mirror. It’s all starting to crumble, and I’m left shivering in the same cold I constructed.
...It always happens in the car. Always. Knuckles tight on the wheel, phone plugged into the charger, and Bluetooth blasting my newest playlist. I’m on the way home, minding my own business, when my commute is interrupted by the same still small voice I’ve so grown to cherish:
“I know you feel like you’ve failed. But you haven’t.”
He has a way of getting straight to the heart of it, every time. Failure has been the monster I’ve been running from since my early twenties and as it turns out, I’ve been running away from something irrelevant. Air, as it were. The chill is temporary. The frost won’t stay. The sun always comes eventually.
So for anyone who may need to hear it as much as I do, here is a promise...summer is coming, and the sun with it. That’s all I know, and at the moment it’s all I have. In the meantime, come over any time. I’d love to make you some spaghetti.
