This old house of mine must work hard in a storm. She bears up under the snow and the wind, sheltering and protecting and keeping us safe and warm. She is a mother. Without her, we could not survive.
A storm brings out the best in us, I think. When normal is interrupted, life becomes an adventure. The boys trudge through five foot high drifts to help their dad do what needs to be done outside. They come back in, wet and red-cheeked and laughing.
It seems right to have pancakes and hot chocolate for breakfast. To linger for a while around the table, listening to the Blues one of the boys has playing on his iPod, and to visit.
The weather has grounded us.
Grounded in the sense that we are stuck here, physically unable to get out of our yard until the plow comes to our rescue. But grounded, also, in that all is slowed, quieted, and time is a friend. Things lost in the rush of normal become gifts. The second cup. The lingering visit. The laughter of family with time to sit and share.
The storm is raging. But she brings with her the treasure of a day of different.