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On A Prairie Home Companion, Garrison Keillor tells a poignant story about Lake Wobegon life on the northern Minnesota prairie, where children knew what it meant to travel a great distance to school. And where a sudden winter storm is life threatening.
In preparation for a winter storm emergency, each child is assigned a storm-home, a place nearer the school, where the child will go, and stay, if the weather becomes too treacherous for travel. On the first day of school, slips of paper are given to each child. The paper says: "Your storm-home is with the (blank) family."
Garrison tells of being assigned to the Krugers. The Krugers were an elderly couple and, as he recalls, very kindly. They had an impeccable house with a fence around a large yard. On normal school days Garrison would walk by the house and imagine what it would be like if he had to take refuge there. He imagines the crackling fireplace, a delicious meatloaf, and a quilted blanket on the bed. And Garrison imagines Mr. Kruger speaking to the principal, and pointing over toward him and saying, "There, that little boy over there - we would like him for our storm-child." All of this imagining made Garrison feel secure, even though, as it happened that school year, he never had to stay in his storm home.
Even so. Sometime in our life, every one of us needs a storm-home.
For the past several days in the Pacific Northwest, we were not going anywhere. The ground is covered with snow, which is covered by a sheet of ice, and dusted with more snow. The forecast calls for freezing rain. When the Governor of the state tells you to "stay indoors," I guess that's serious. Although... if you are so inclined, some of the side roads are perfect for cross-country skiing. All the better since there won't be any traffic.
I spent two of those days (with half of the city of Seattle) at SeaTac airport, our schedules recalibrated and plans scuttled. (It reminded me why I am glad I'm not a list maker.) I passed some of the time reliving the memories and stories of another big storm from 2008...
when we were housebound for days...
...every big storm here breaks a record of sorts--making it a "real storm" here in the NW--meaning that the day before the storm all islanders (unaccustomed to snow of any kind) high-tailed it to the supermarket (the store a frenzied clump of anxiety, like shoppers snatching cabbage-patch dolls, or i-phones, depending on your generational memory), their carts crammed with jugs of drinking-water, batteries, candles, and a bottle or two of good Syrah. Let's face it: There is no sense riding out any storm without some fine Syrah.
Our driveway is impassable, the main roads iced and precarious, and nothing on the day's agenda is worth the risk. These are days made for sitting inside, and looking out. On our patio sits a great chocolate-brown terracotta pot, home to our Russian olive tree. The tree is bowed, deferential and weighted from the snow. From where I sit, the pot looks like a perfect cupcake, frosted with over a foot of icing. Or is it meringue?
Our woodlands are silent. Outside our windows, it is a white New Year framed with shadowed trees, a still life painting in black and white, unspoiled and ageless. The snow coats (blankets is a better word) the trees and shrubs and the stalks of spent perennials. On a nearby rose, I see two bubblegum pink rosebuds not yet spent, still tight-fisted, and though stooped by the snow, a picture of optimism.
The entire landscape allows a space.
For pausing.
Waiting.
Exhaling.
There is no work to be done now.
In the garden, it is time for fallow ground.
So. Today I spend the day--my Sabbath--in my storm home.
Yes, with fire in the fireplace, coffee and chocolate cake from the Monkey-Tree Bakery. The music of Chris Botti, Sarah Mclachlan, Kenny Chesney and a Celtic folk ensemble fill the air through the afternoon.
Books litter the couch. I am reading from three in the pile: Doris Kearns Goodwin's Team of Rivals (Lincoln's leadership during the civil war), WS Merwin's poetry, and Jim Martin's My Life With the Saints. (Call me ADHD if you wish, and I'm sure the label will fit, but I still find great comfort in the variation.)
Or, if you prefer, spend the day with my son Zach, (who said of Sr. Maria--while watching The Sound of Music last night--"if I was one of those nuns, I'd think about doing video games to make it more interesting."), who is outdoors today, on a sled doing precarious runs down our challenging driveway hill.
This I know: Not all storms are weather related.
Life bears enough storms of it's own.
Grief perhaps (a church leader I respected and admired, died this week, and I am very sad).
Or conflict (I couldn't quite see eye to eye on a project dispute, leaving it difficult to avoid hard feelings).
Or melancholy (call it what you want, but there are days when we carry a sadness or heaviness for reasons we cannot explain).
And too often, we want to weather the storm on our own. Maybe we don't want a storm home. A place for resting up.
We're not that long past Advent... where we talked about "Immanuel," which means "God with Us." In other words, We are not alone here.
I do know this. It makes a difference when we know we have a storm home. It is another way of saying (or knowing), "I am held safe here." I hope that is the case for you in this New Year...
And I know if we're lucky, we can pass that gift on to one anther. So here's the deal. If you are passing by this neck of the woods, and have four-wheel drive, and a good pair of snow boots, you're welcome to stop in and sit by the fire for as long as you like. We'll sip some hot chocolate, or some of that fine Syrah, and let Aaron Neville's version of The Song of Bernadette melt around us as this winter night descends.
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