I delight in the quiet winter days. January, February, even March, have a unique sweetness to them. Slow-paced and reflective. Miraculous in complexity. Poetic in simplicity.

Last evening Bently wanted to go for a walk, a walk that would require more than just standing at the back door, singing to keep warm until he was ready to come back. Yes, a good long walk to let out both of our pent-up energy, boots and all. We walked down the sidewalk, skirted a snowdrift, passed the barn and woodpile, wove around the cyprus hedge chasing two sparrows, under the oak tree, and to the garden.

Once we reached the garden, Bently began to stiffly prance, then stopped short. He balanced his frozen front paws above the snow and begged to be rescued. I scooped him up and carried him the short distance to the back door where we shook off the snow and were welcomed into the warmth of the kitchen.

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Winter is the season I hear people begrudge the most. As a little girl I loved it—snow angels, snow men, snow sculptures; everything snow. We would send “notes” to airplanes by writing gigantic messages with our tracks in the snow-laden back field. Adventures of crafting the pristine snow into works of child art were the epitome of winter joy, the coziness afterwards you could enjoy only if you braved the elements and returned victorious.

But as I’ve grown to realize the inconvenience of it all (you know, the icy roads, shoveling driveways, layering in static-y sweaters. . .) it’s become very easy to complain. I don’t particularly care to get my socks soaked from endless hours of snow-moving, plus lots of other people seemed bothered by it all, so why don’t I just join in and complain, too?

But I try to resist. I weakly (and pridefully and humbly) resist complaining. Pridefully because it’s my birth season: akin to heritage, you would never hear an American disown that he was part Irish. Humbly because just look at it: the Creator of the universe made every snowflake and blanketed every woodland scene and city scape, offering you a look at the world in a new way. It’s beautiful, it’s gloriously breath-taking, He made it for us, and I dare not complain.

Will another Winter slip before I take time to appreciate it’s splendor? On my deathbed I don’t want to remember life as standing at the back door complaining about the weather and then turning indoors to breathe stale, dead air. If you knew there was a letter from a  dear friend waiting for you in the mailbox but you had to journey through the snowdrifts to get it, would you venture out into the cold? Well, each and every snowflake is a letter, a teeny-tiny letter of your Savior’s love for you that proclaims His glory and creativity.

So on this quiet winter day, I think I’ll go on another walk with Bently. And I’ll carry him home as we breathe in the bracing cold air . . . and revel in the sparkling, wispy drifts of snow made for His glory, and for us.