It wasn’t the first snow,
But the heavens opened today
With a quieter kind of reverence
A reminder that God still turns
The pages of the year
With the gentlest of hands.
No thunder, no trumpet,
Just flakes descending like soft scriptures,
Whispering lessons written
In white, in silence, in surrender.
Calgary stood still beneath it all
Rooftops bowed in calm humility,
Trees lifting thin arms
Like worshipers receiving grace,
And the streets exhaling the truth:
Nothing stays the same… and that is holy.
For every season carries a sermon,
And winter’s text is always the same
Slow down.
Look inward.
Let the noise freeze long enough
For the soul to hear itself again.
As each flake touched the earth,
I felt the Spirit nudge my heart:
“I change the seasons,
But I do not change.
Find Me in the stillness.”
So I welcomed the snow
Not as a stranger,
But as a familiar messenger
Returning to remind me
That the cycle of cold and bloom
Is not chaos but choreography,
And every return of winter
Is a quiet invitation
To trust the One
Who governs time.
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