If you grew up in the Delaware Valley in the seventies you probably have memories of going to bed just as it was beginning to snow and eventually falling asleep with the hope of waking up to a snow day. A free day. A fun day.
You wake up at 6AM while it is still dark outside and stay in bed listening to KYW news radio. Do you remember that sound? The rhythmic clacking of the phony teletype machine that was their signature background. It was like the soundtrack of Philadelphia. The white noise of our childhood. How was it possible for all those announcers to sound like the same person?
But we were not thinking about that. We were too focused on what was being said as the man read long lists of numbers, the glorious school closing numbers. It was always a good sign when he would begin the list with the words, “all Philadelphia public and parochial schools are closed”. But you were in the suburbs of Chester or Montgomery County; maybe the snow was not heavy enough there yet. He would read through the numbers by county, and you would listen eagerly for your number. You were crestfallen if he skipped over it. The injustice! It wasn’t fair! But you wait until the bottom of the hour when they start again and eventually you would hear that authoritative voice on your AM clock radio announce that your school was indeed closed. It felt like a victory.
We would bounce out of bed and start getting dressed while scarfing down a bowl of sugary cereal. Then we would head outside to see the snow. We would go out to the main road and grab passing car bumpers for a ride on the snow-covered street, until your feet hit a dry patch and you wiped out. Remember the big steel bumpers cars used to have? They were great for being pulled around town. Lots of cars would get stuck and gangs of us would wander the streets pushing and rocking them out. If we were lucky somebody’s stay-at-home mom (a rare commodity in my childhood) would make us hot chocolate. It was all so glorious and carefree.
Do you remember those feelings? The anticipation and eagerness of listening to the numbers being called. The digging and wading through snow till you were soaked to the skin and numb with cold and didn’t care. All rivalries and animosities were dropped. The ancient grudges from last week were let go. It was time to be light-hearted. Why? Because snow days are magical. A snow day is a gift, an unscheduled holiday from history.
I cannot remember the last time I was truly light-hearted. It is a long way from my middle school snow days. I was never good at school. Sitting down, facing forward, and paying attention was unbearable; a snow day felt like a present dropped from Heaven. I do not think we were made for drudgery. I think we have been created for joy, but life creeps up on us and steals it a little at a time. Our hearts get beat up, and they often break, so we make them hard. I am often jaded and cynical as I look out upon this world. We become blunted, guarded, and the crisp, dazzling happiness of the snow day dissolves into the steel-gray emptiness of just another Philadelphia winter. Why?
Childhood is always calling to us, but we push it away and tune it out until we become deaf to it. But it is worth remembering at this time of year that the child born in Bethlehem grew up to say, “unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” That is not an admonition to be childish (which is what I often am) but, rather, it is a command to be child-LIKE.
Children simply believe, they trust. That trust is often misplaced and so we become weary adults. But there is so much all around us that is trustworthy. My grandchildren completely trust me without demanding to know all that is in my head or in my heart.
Children are always full of wonder and hope. Their hearts leap at the thought of a snow day. They go outside and stare up at the sky with their mouths open and their arms out while they spin and catch flakes on their tongues. They fall back into the snow and flap their arms and legs to make snow angels. Children make ANGELS.
Children tend to have the right priorities. They love easily and generously. They forgive quickly. They hope relentlessly, anticipating joy, excited by something as mundane as numbers called on the radio. When we were kids we would shovel a few sidewalks for cash, and then immediately go to 7-11 to spend it together on junk; because kids know that money is for spending and giving, not accumulating. We would sled into the night, never looking at a clock, never thinking about the next day. Tomorrow is heavy, put it down.
Life is magical. I think we forget that every day is a gift; a present we are meant to open. Is there often pain and sorrow there? Yes, but that is not our birthright. Our birthright is joy, but we grow up and turn away from it. We should never stop reaching back to drink from the wells of childhood. The newness, the wonder, the discovery, the immortality of gladness. That is where God is.
Is he in the days of loss and grief? Yes, but he visits us there, like any friend or parent would, because we need him to. Where does he reside? In the brightness. In the laughter and humble faith of a child’s heart. In the hope and glory of the light-hearted hour. God dwells in the snow days.
Have a wonderful Christmas tomorrow. And remember, when it snows next month, just outside and play.
“What was wonderful about childhood is that anything in it was a wonder. It was not merely a world full of miracles; it was a miraculous world.” _ GK Chesterton