By Amanda Cleary Eastep
I have two memories of snow that stick in my mind like individual snowflakes to window glass, their intricacies blatantly announcing both God’s mathematical genius and His ability to condense the universe into a tiny, faceted jewel. (Or the Savior into a newborn.)
In the first, I am nine years old, caroling with my parents and their friends and children. The sky is the usual pitch black you find above small towns surrounded by hundreds of acres of cornfield, and our group is marching down the middle of the street like it is the first Christmas after an apocalypse, and this is our street. There is no need to look both ways as the snow begins to fall.
The flakes are pieces of exploded ancient star making their way to earth, a heavenly host placed gently upon our stuck-out tongues.
When I look up, the flakes are backlit by the solitary streetlight so that they seem to be falling from right above us and not from the dark palm of God.
The sight isn’t magical, as in the semblance of magic. It is magic.
READ the full essay at Cultivating Oaks Press…
Amanda Cleary Eastep 