I was rushing to get to my work assignment. I wasn’t running late, but I preferred arriving early so that I could take a few moments to get organized and prepared for the day’s tasks. It was a gray day with big fluffy snowflakes fluttering to earth like butterflies on broken wings. Each flake added itself to the pristine scene of freshly fallen snow that covered the ground and made the world seem new, clean, and full of possibility. My sense of haste abated then evaporated as I witnessed my Creator’s hand at work.
Just beyond the perimeter fence, trees reached to the bleak sky with skeletal limbs. Each appendage was dusted ever so delicately with a white covering as if some cosmic baker had been a bit overzealous with the flour. The serene scene was desolate but gorgeous—a post-apocalyptic postcard. Temperatures were chilly but not uncomfortable, and there wasn’t a whiff of wind. With snow floating all around, I was elated, lifted from the dire nature of my confines and the dreariness of my thoughts. I was compelled to praise and give thanks to the architect of all I saw before me.
“I love you, Lord, and I lift my voice to worship you…” The words of the old song came to me once more as they often did, words that I’ve carried from my youth. They sprang forth from my ebullient heart as it overflowed with humble gratitude for all of my abundant blessings. “Oh, my soul, rejoice. Take joy, my King, in what you hear. May it be a sweet, sweet sound in your ear.” The words carried my feet and my uplifted spirit to the door of the building where I worked. I entered with a smile on my face and joy of the Lord deep down in my heart.
Good morning, beautiful day today,” I said as soon as I got in the room. My supervisor hacked out a harsh scoffing laugh at my greeting.
“Yeah, right,” was the uenthused and sarcastic rely. “All that snow. And it’s too cold. I can’t wait for spring to get her already.” Ms. Griss was a little old lady in her mid-sixties with glasses and a gray/blond perm curled atop her head. She had a slow, deliberate way of moving and speaking, and usually had a more upbeat demeanor. It was December, and this was only the second snowfall of the season—the first snow significant enough to actually stick around rather than immediately melting. I thought to bite my tongue, but my effulgent emotions couldn’t be contained.
“Oh, no, no. It’s beautiful out there. I can see the handiwork of our Creator on display.” Her face twisted and scrunched into a disbelieving scowl as she looked up from her early morning document collating. I smiled warmly, and she seemed to be examining me, her eyes searching for some chink in my sincerity. Finding none, her age-lined lips parted and turned upward in a reluctant smile. This time when she laughed it wasn’t so harsh.
“I suppose so. I can accept that.” It was a begrudging concession, and it made me wish I could endow her with the thrilling intensity of my exuberant joy. Instead Ms. Griss turned back to her paperwork and I went to my workstation.
I’ve long felt that, to some degree, one’s outlook determines one’s outcome. Recognizing the effortless beauty of God’s design and creation, in whatever meager way you can manage, or in whatever drab circumstances you find yourself in, can’t help but point toward a hope-filled outcome. And hope is a good thing.