Winter never froze the California of my childhood. Snow was as rare as a single day in January, 1950. In that magic dawn, my sisters and I ran outside, turned our startled faces to the snow, put out our tongues to taste what fell from the fading moon. By evening, every flake had vanished.
On this day sixty years later, snow covers much of this country from the Sierras east to the Atlantic's gray waves. Even here in normally snowless Nashville, winter threatens to kill all hope of spring.
Down the street, patients at Nashville's Alive Hospice live their last winter with prayers for God's eternal spring. Perhaps, today you who live so close to the blood of the wounded are caring for patients in their last season – or in their first.
January can be a hard month since spring looks as far away as a desert oasis. When I fall into this winter quiet and reflect, these are some of the strange words that attach themselves to my world:
I Hear Snow Falling From the Moon
After January snow-petaled the wings of my willow oak & silenced the soil I forgot everything. Memory freezes in the crevices amid murdered lilacs, slain ferns, the crushed cries of mislaid lambs.
Today, gray slays yellow & green. Blue dies & red never lived.
Who can paint from a palette smeared with ashes?
Near noon, I stab my fingers into the snow. A surgeon, I pull apart earth’s skin, palpate limp arteries, press my ear against the soundless crust.
It’s a fact that azaleas hibernate & wolves, drawing close, can hear the faintest breath. It’s proven that sleeping bees turn & roses dream of rising.
Yesterday, I felt your blood. Today I am tired of gray.
Tomorrow, we will burn pink, inseminate the fearful moon with spring.
May your caregiver's heart plant Love's seeds amid the fields of need.
-Reverend Erie Chapman
Photograph: "Snow Petals" – Erie Chapman, January, 2011
Journal of Sacred Work 
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