So yesterday, I drove home through snow squalls. When I left the school, the sun was shining, and I felt foolish about leaving early because of bad weather. But I've lived in southwestern Ontario long enough to know that when there are snow squalls, what I see out of my window might not be what is happening 3 km away.
Driving into a snow squall can be terrifying. One minute, the sun is shining. The next minute, I drive into a wall of snow. It hits without warning. One minute the road is clear and dry, and I'm cruising on cruise, singing along to the radio, and all is bright and cheerful. The next minute, the road under my tires is completely snow covered, I cannot see past the windshield of my own car, and every other vehicle on the road is swallowed up in that impenetrable world of white. The road, which I have driven countless times, which I know like the back of my hand - every dip, every turn, every river and tree and farm - is lost in a confusing morass of whirling snowflakes. I hit the brakes, and feel the skid of tires that have lost traction. I squint and lean forward, trying to penetrate the sudden wall of white that is blocking my vision. Slower and slower I go, peering ahead, trying to find some point of reference, all the while fully aware that there are transport trucks behind me, travelling much faster than me, about to roar into that same wall of snow. They cannot see me any more than I can see anything else, and I am in a small car.
There is great comfort in spotting a double-pinprick of red tail lights ahead of me. There is even greater comfort when I spot, in my rear view mirror, the hulking form of a transport truck, slowing down, keeping back. Suddenly, I am not alone in my blindness. I am surrounded by people in the same fix I'm in, and we creep forward together, forming an instant community on the highway. We navigate the storm together, until, just as suddenly as it all started, we drive out of the wall of snow, and the sun is shining again.
As I navigated this last batch of snow squalls, reflecting on my day, I thought, How like life. Sometimes, I can tell that the sky is clouding over. I can feel the coming threat in the air. I can brace myself for it. There are storms of life that come with warnings. But so much more often it seems, the storms just hit out of a blue sky. One minute, all is well, and the next minute, blinded by tears, I can't see my way forward. With my emotions twisting and turning like the snowflakes, I've lost my traction. I've lost my vision. I can't see God. I've lost all sense of perspective. I can no longer see where I've come from, where I am, or where I'm going. The phone call in the night, or in the day. The bad news. The pink slip. The slip-and-fall-and-break-something. The car accident. Whatever it is. Boom. Snow squall.
When I hit those storms, there is something in me that wants to just charge ahead, to get through the storm as quickly as I can. I don't like this blinding, confusing miasma. I hate the feeling of loss of control. I fear slowing down, fear that those around me will not understand my sudden hesitations, and I will be crushed under their exuberance. I want to be through it post haste, back in the sunshine and the open roads and the moving forward on cruise. I know that there is sunshine ahead, so I'll just plough through recklessly.
Instead, I am forced to slow down. Slower and slower. The staggering halt, tears streaming, heart pounding, looking around for some landmark, some sense of normalcy in the chaos of the storm, praying to God that those around me don't overrun me and crush me in the haste of happy-clappy and sunshiny ways. It will pass, I know. I always drive through the squalls. God is still there, I know, just as I know that the sun is still shining, though blotted out with snow. But knowing that there is sunshine just up the road doesn't help me when I have no idea where the road even is. What will help me get through it is acknowledging the storm and slowing down as much as I need to be able to find some sort of orienting landmark. Sometimes, the way forward is found by slowing down and stopping.
How comforting it is, then, to find myself travelling with people who understand. They don't try to minimise the storm. They don't tell me that if I just fixed my eyes on God instead of on the storm, I'd be able to see. They don't get impatient with my creeping along. They don't tell me my faith is weak and run me off the road. They don't charge past me with their high-powered life, splattering me in their wake, and leaving me to grope blindly on my own. Pfft, not MY storm! Shoulda got a 4-wheel-drive Hummer like I did! Good luck, sucka! Instead, they slow down, too. "It's ok. I understand you can't see. I understand it's confusing and frightening. I know why you've slowed down. Let's do this together." They become those pinprick red lights shining through the confusion, helping lead the way back to the sunshine. Oh, how grateful I am for those kind and patient souls in the storms of life.
Yes, the storm will pass. Sometimes, like a grey, rainy day, the clouds will break up slowly, with a ray of sunshine here or there. Sometimes, like in snow squalls, the storm will be over as quickly as it began, leaving me weary and wary for when the next squall will hit. But it will pass.
Until it does, I'll move slowly. With all the rest of us who are travelling through the storms of life.
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