All Is Bright

Our snowblower crapped out on me after just two runs trying to blow nine inches of heavy, wet snow.

Figures.

My wife and I broke our backs shoveling the stuff for an hour and a half, all while that big, expensive snow blower sat there without any pretense of apology or guilt.

It remained, inoperative in the driveway, sportscar red in its nonrunning smugness.

I won’t deny it. I cussed. I swore. I moaned. I think, in some way, the pathetic whining helped to fuel my muscles and provide additional stamina as I hefted 30-pound blocks of sticky snow on my plastic yellow shovel.

My wife, meanwhile, being the true macho stalwart of our 30-plus year union, just grinned and beared it as she worked her way through with stoicism and grace.

But, in all my consternation and anguish—the bitter contempt that coursed through me as the universe once again had a laugh at my expense—I can honestly say, one thought never totally left me. One observation could not be denied nor tucked away by my petty frustration.

Wow. How beautiful.

Because it was. The season had started out early with a majestic blanket of white. We hadn’t seen such snowfall in early December for many years. We would have a white Christmas and I loved it. However, as the weeks went by, and intermittent warmer weather worked away at the seasonal covering, we ended up with more of a dirty ol’ comforter of Christmas bedding to season our holiday—certainly better than a muddy green and brown Christmas, but not quite the snow globe Christmas I always hope for.

So, why wouldn’t a light blizzard of snowfall come right at the end of the holiday vacation so we’d have to deal with it on our first Monday morning back at work, only to find out our snowblower decided it was STILL on vacation?

But man-oh-man, what a gorgeous, sparkling quilt of white now spreads over the landscape and fluffs out our naked trees. It really is stunning.

And, as I went out tonight to finish a small section of shoveling we’d left behind, I realized something. Life is hard. It can dump nine inches of challenges upon us. It can make the things we rely on suddenly take a shitter on us and force us to grab a shovel and strain our backs to dig out of it. Big forces beyond our control can plow down the street, scooping up a bunch more wet, heavy trouble to dump at the foot of life’s driveway that we have no choice but to struggle through.

But it’s still beautiful. It’s awesome. It can take your breath away.

I look at the few homes in my neighborhood that put up lights for Christmas. They help to make the neighborhood just a little more magical. And you know what? When the storm comes and the snow flies—when we’re buried and burdened by such an uncontrollable force of nature—those lights are even more beautiful, more enchanting as the sun sets and the day goes to rest. That’s when I realized something else. It’s corny, but it’s true—especially now:

We can either chose to be one of the lights that glows, or we can choose to be dark and be one of those lights that takes the entire string with us and make it all dark.

Listen, I know I’m making hackneyed analogies here. I’m being corny and superficial as hell. I get it. There is so much suffering in this world that goes so far beyond my analogy. Twenty feet of snow still wouldn’t compare to the weight of what others are going through. And what I say isn’t intended for those who are facing true trauma, hardship, oppression, war and hate.

This is for the rest of us. Those who are privileged to have a roof over our heads, a warm place to be, and food to eat, and clothes to wear.

The next time you’re shoveling through your little driveway of life, don’t forget to look up and realize how beautiful the snow is.

And please, please, how about in 2026, none of us end up being the burnt-out light that makes it dark for everyone.

Okay?

Happy New Year.