I can scarcely think of a better way to help a family grieving one more Christmas without their son and brother than a feathery falling of snow.
Christmas Eve was the perfect excuse to grab snowshoes and dog to head for our favorite community trail system, where my spirits are always renewed by the healing breath of nature. We spied a little hawk perched high in a cottonwood tree, chased each other around the stubby spruce trees, and let Bear show us the snow shelter he built last week at outdoor survival daycamp (yes, given many options for vacation fun, he picked winter survival; go figure).
I was content with 14 inches of perfectly perfect snow already on the ground, and our dreams of a white Christmas would have been fulfilled, easily. But when kid is in bed and all the lights are out except for the Christmas tree, and the eggnog is poured, and Midnight Mass is on the radio (I am a sucker for Christmas and Easter High Holy Mass), falling snow pushes me over the edge of sentimentality. And did it ever snow! Way beyond our bedtime of 1 a.m.
Bear woke up this morning to a new sled from Santa and a deep desire to try it out right away. Obviously.
The only other thing that competes with falling snow for a lump in my throat is the sight of a little boy flopping down on his brand new Christmas sled and belly-whopping down the sledding hill lovingly built by his dad.
It almost made up for the other boy we are missing. Almost. But it sure helped.