Whiter than Snow

Oh, Father!

I sit here this morning at my kitchen table, and I look out the window. The snow is blowing—

Father, I thank you that your Son’s blood makes us whiter than this gently falling snow. Your Son’s willingness to die for us, to be buried for us and to be resurrected for us is a gift—an utter gift. I pray today as we look out and see the snow fall we would remember what you have done for us. You did not leave us to do this alone. You did not leave us to logic our way through, reason our way across. No, you sent your Son here—to dwell among us. To feel with us. To suffer with us. To mourn with us. He was not exempt. You did not shield him because he was your Son—no, you told him the plan and he willingly came. Entered our atmosphere—our pollution and breathed it into his pristine lungs.

Often, Father, I forget the dark and ugly place I was when you came looking for me. I forget the pit and the dire straits to which I had fallen, and the mud and muck that encased my feet and sucked me in and down. I forget because I am in such a good place now. I live on level ground, solid terrain. Your lovingkindness dried up the waterbed of my sin. Your faithfulness strung a bridge across the torrential currents of my chaos.

Thank you. Thank that this morning the snow…

The snow reminded me of this great salvation you have given me.

I was scarlet.

Bleeding black red because of the condition of my heart and the bent of my spirit.

But you sent the snow. And his name is Jesus.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Amen