Snow and Gratitude

If people sat outside and looked at the stars each night, I bet they would live a lot differently. - Calvin & Hobbes

My friend Carol and I used to collect snow poems. I still have mine. I have so many. There's Philip Levine and Robert Frost and Edna St. Vincent Millay. There's one by Chase Twichell, who I never heard of before or since. There's one by my cousin Anne in Denmark, one by my cousin Donald who died, and one for the winter solstice by Edward Byrne. Some of them, Carol and I wrote ourselves. Some were special and some embarrassed us, but I kept them all.

Snow came to the tips of our mountains for the first time this year. Riding to school this morning, Justice and Justin were fascinated to see the mountantops covered in clouds. Two days of rain in the valley left our peaks in a haze of dark, floating cotton. Such a grey morning. Such a dark day.

Our kids' Hanukkah presentation took place at their school this morning and we were so proud of them. Watching Justin's face light up when he scanned the audience and finally spotted us brought tears to my eyes. What a beautiful gift these children have been to me and Adam. What beautiful, irreplaceable treasures. I can not imagine now what I'd ever do without them.

Kindergarten, first, second, third and fourth grade. There they were en masse, up on stage in their shiny Shabbat uniforms. New blue tights and new blue ties. It took me forever to find a blue tie for Justin, and of course, he took it off the minute he was done. But that's okay. It was worth it. They sang "Light One Candle" by Peter, Paul and Mary. They sang "Mi Yimalel" and "Al HaNissim." So many children up on that stage. All incomparably beautiful and all blessedly safe.

And out of all the proud parents who came to watch our children today, none of us knew that 2,500 miles away in Newtown, Connecticut, where the forecast says it will snow on Sunday, the unspeakable was already happening.

"Stunned by the slaughter of innocents," Associated Press wrote later. And I guess, for something so horrific that makes completely no sense, that's as good a summary as any.

And I think how lucky I am to have my children warm and safe tonight. They're sleeping soundly on the living room floor right now, downstairs on their sleeping bags, as is their routine on Friday nights after Shabbat service.

Rabbi Mintz, one of my Melton studies teachers, sent us all an email tonight, paraphrasing Rabbi Naomi Levy, who wrote the following in "Talking to God."

"We are scared, God. Why did this have to happen? Why didn't You protect them? What is wrong with this world? We wish we could understand your silence, God. We wish we could make sense of the senselessness of their deaths. We wish we could have done something to save them, to protect them from harm. When we cry out against You, accept our protest, God, as a prayer too. As a call for You to give us the strength to rid this world of such pain and tragedy. When the nightmare of what they experienced invades our thoughts, watch over us, God; watch over Your world. Shelter us all with Your peace, Amen."

I am so lucky, God. I have two beautiful new children, and nothing harmed them today. Nothing hurt them or scared them or took them away from me. They're right downstairs, Justin snoring softly, and Justice burrowed into her sleeping bag, head covered to shut out his noise. Thank you God, for keeping my kindergartener and first grader safe today. Thank you for the simple and incredible gift of their ongoing life.

And still I'm thinking of snow poems...one in particular, that has nothing at all to do with the children who died today, but it does speak of family and loss, and children and snow. I wrote it for my friend Jenny, who lost her husband Chris in what now seems to me another lifetime ago. Somehow it seems to echo my sadness tonight. It may be fitting, it may be not, but since I can't get it out of my head, I'll leave it here and hope it reaches Newtown, and all the lost parents who await Sunday's sad snow.

You pushed me down in fresh snow that winter,
And struggling, we made angels together,
Flapping and flailing, pretending with wings,
Struggling and laughing at the depth of it all:
The humor in our teenage games,
The light the moon made,
And the inconsequentialness of our lives.
You and I in winter, never cold,
With wonder and promise and good springs to follow.

I took your name. You lived in me.
My heart was changed, stomped firm with your imprint.
Like boots in snow and prints on the walkway.
We made a different kind of love then.
I gave you sons.
We made different kinds of angels.

So how is it that you died today?
In the middle of this cold, sad winter?
So far from snow games?
So far from yesterday's springs?

Standing now at the edge of my driveway,
I stop to breathe and look up at the stars.
Alone as I'll ever be, I count them and cry.
In a rage unfair and a dream half-remembered,
I wonder which blink in the heavens is you.

Snow starts to fall.
Somewhere in the world, angels form.
They take their shapes and play their harps
On leaves and lawns and lonely snow.

I hold out my hand to catch the first flake,
But all I can feel is you.

Thank you God, for keeping us safe today.

For those who died, we send our love.

Amen and amen.

Shabbat shalom.