Snow Day
Today was the first snow day of the school year. This morning Jason and I were awoken by our boys’ timid knocks at our bedroom door, and the subsequent bouncing of excited third- and fourth-grade bodies on our bed. We decided to observe a snow day in the purest sense of the word—by choosing to play and to connect instead of checking items off our weekend to-do list (I’m sure it looks a lot like yours: pay the bills, mail belated birthday cards, wrap some gifts, catch up on our Inboxes, clean the house). So we dug our snowshoes out of the attic and piled into the car for nearby Lynn Woods.
The day did not disappoint. We were greeted by a pristine world of white (“It looks like Narnia!” Jackson said), and absolute stillness. As we crested the first hill, I realized suddenly what the trek meant to our family—the first time our sons had been able to use the snowshoes we purchased at a sale so many years ago, evidence of how absolutely free Orilüs is now from his sickle cell disease, and any post-transplant effects. “Look at us!” I exclaimed, and found it appropriate that our celebration was heard only by squirrels, and each other, and God. So much of our journey this year has been like that—quiet moments of great celebration that give us pause, and time for thanks.
In the rush of life this year, we have worked hard to choose “snow days”—moments for each other, out of the rush of life. In May we celebrated the one-year anniversary of Orilüs’ bone marrow transplant, which was marked by the end of his at-home isolation and his return to school, church, and the soccer field. We spent the summer enjoying the benefits of a healthy life—we made two trips to Kansas (sadly, one unexpectedly for my dear grandmother’s passing), celebrated our ten-year wedding anniversary in Vermont, went on our first family camping trip, and experienced an expense-paid Make-a-Wish trip to Orlando (the boys remarked that Kansas was way more fun, perhaps a tribute to the slowness they truly need to thrive). I was especially grateful to Jason and the boys for allowing me to travel for nearly three weeks in July to South Africa, which marked for me the finale of a long transplant year and did much to restore my spirit.
The beginning of the new school year brought with it a true transition back to life post-transplant, the first school year the four of us have begun together, and intend to finish together, in a long time. The transition has been more difficult than we anticipated (complicated by a mandate that Jason take three education courses, and by my new and challenging teaching role at our high school). We long for more snow days, and less busy days. We try to make them, limiting the boys’ extra-curricular involvements to one each (for Jackson, continued success in gymnastics, for Orilüs a new experience in a hip hop class), and trying hard to observe family traditions—an electricity-reduced night once a week, a weekend “Sabbath” day for play and rest, weekly family nights spent mostly on games and more rarely on movies, evening musical worship and Psalter readings, more regular times with extended family. We also took a sabbatical from involvement with Ripple Effect, our non-profit, this year, in a wise attempt to give us more room for family and for thinking about our family’s future. Like many of you, we long for more community in our lives, deeper relationships with our children and with family and friends, and feel the angst of our culture, which lures us into busyness and away from relationship. We pray for a life that is lived more like a snow day and less like a dizzying tick of a to-do list.
And so today, we have given thanks by plodding along on snowshoes, and eating fistfuls of snow, and making snow angels, and laughing in the cold. If life really is a frenzy of urgency, we surely would have been left behind at our pace today. But if life is what we expect—an opportunity to create and make snow days, to honor moments for connection, to be silent long enough to experience God’s grace—then today, we have lived well.
Wishing you the pause of a “snow day” during this season of God’s quiet love,
Melissa for Team Winchell
Today was the first snow day of the school year. This morning Jason and I were awoken by our boys’ timid knocks at our bedroom door, and the subsequent bouncing of excited third- and fourth-grade bodies on our bed. We decided to observe a snow day in the purest sense of the word—by choosing to play and to connect instead of checking items off our weekend to-do list (I’m sure it looks a lot like yours: pay the bills, mail belated birthday cards, wrap some gifts, catch up on our Inboxes, clean the house). So we dug our snowshoes out of the attic and piled into the car for nearby Lynn Woods.
The day did not disappoint. We were greeted by a pristine world of white (“It looks like Narnia!” Jackson said), and absolute stillness. As we crested the first hill, I realized suddenly what the trek meant to our family—the first time our sons had been able to use the snowshoes we purchased at a sale so many years ago, evidence of how absolutely free Orilüs is now from his sickle cell disease, and any post-transplant effects. “Look at us!” I exclaimed, and found it appropriate that our celebration was heard only by squirrels, and each other, and God. So much of our journey this year has been like that—quiet moments of great celebration that give us pause, and time for thanks.
In the rush of life this year, we have worked hard to choose “snow days”—moments for each other, out of the rush of life. In May we celebrated the one-year anniversary of Orilüs’ bone marrow transplant, which was marked by the end of his at-home isolation and his return to school, church, and the soccer field. We spent the summer enjoying the benefits of a healthy life—we made two trips to Kansas (sadly, one unexpectedly for my dear grandmother’s passing), celebrated our ten-year wedding anniversary in Vermont, went on our first family camping trip, and experienced an expense-paid Make-a-Wish trip to Orlando (the boys remarked that Kansas was way more fun, perhaps a tribute to the slowness they truly need to thrive). I was especially grateful to Jason and the boys for allowing me to travel for nearly three weeks in July to South Africa, which marked for me the finale of a long transplant year and did much to restore my spirit.
The beginning of the new school year brought with it a true transition back to life post-transplant, the first school year the four of us have begun together, and intend to finish together, in a long time. The transition has been more difficult than we anticipated (complicated by a mandate that Jason take three education courses, and by my new and challenging teaching role at our high school). We long for more snow days, and less busy days. We try to make them, limiting the boys’ extra-curricular involvements to one each (for Jackson, continued success in gymnastics, for Orilüs a new experience in a hip hop class), and trying hard to observe family traditions—an electricity-reduced night once a week, a weekend “Sabbath” day for play and rest, weekly family nights spent mostly on games and more rarely on movies, evening musical worship and Psalter readings, more regular times with extended family. We also took a sabbatical from involvement with Ripple Effect, our non-profit, this year, in a wise attempt to give us more room for family and for thinking about our family’s future. Like many of you, we long for more community in our lives, deeper relationships with our children and with family and friends, and feel the angst of our culture, which lures us into busyness and away from relationship. We pray for a life that is lived more like a snow day and less like a dizzying tick of a to-do list.
And so today, we have given thanks by plodding along on snowshoes, and eating fistfuls of snow, and making snow angels, and laughing in the cold. If life really is a frenzy of urgency, we surely would have been left behind at our pace today. But if life is what we expect—an opportunity to create and make snow days, to honor moments for connection, to be silent long enough to experience God’s grace—then today, we have lived well.
Wishing you the pause of a “snow day” during this season of God’s quiet love,
Melissa for Team Winchell
1 comment:
OMG...I was bawling reading your letter that came yesterday and looking at your picture! The picture says it all...out in the cold snow, huddled together keeping warm, genuine smiles on everyone's faces, the anxiety and fear of the unknown erased from your eyes, Orilus' arm around his amazing mum, Jason looking so happy and content, Jackson and Mum looking just happyhappyhappy...this is the picture we've all been waiting for. A portrait of a family who has deeply bonded through some seemingly impossible circumstances, and who now huddle together in confidence and love...one family united forever.
I'm so glad the transplant year is over and gone, and I'm glad you went through it. The ties that bind you together won't be broken, ever.
I love you guys deeply.
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