This week has been full of masterpieces. Yesterday morning, I thought about how the song of Snow Blob dances through my head all winter, the meek Georgia snow offering lessons. Yesterday afternoon, the snow was not meek. Yesterday, there was abundance. Sure, my friends in the north would probably laugh at us, but we played with full hearts.
It started small. Large flakes fell from the sky, bathing our world in white. We took a short walk, delighting in the way our hair was sprinkled with the frozen little poems. Then we returned inside, hoping the snow would build up so we could sled. So we watched the Jedi return and the dark side lose, sixteen people in our little room. I made my mom’s potato soup, and we feasted.
Continuing the feast of friendship, we played. I marveled at the time it takes to prepare. We borrowed hats, traded gloves, smiled wide, and went outside. Skipping, slipping, sliding, sledding—we met a new campus yesterday. Cardinals danced, their feathers vibrant against the white.
Many of these same friends went to the High Museum of Art in Atlanta last weekend. There was more talent housed under the arched roof than I could imagine. We stood before masterpieces, carefully looking but unable to fully see. I’m not at all a trained artist, but looking at some of the pictures of the sea could almost make me smell the salt. Without leaving Atlanta, I travelled to London, to the American West, to a Segregated South, to an old Catholic church, and through a cave off the coast of Scotland.
The masterpieces could barely compare to the vision that our campus had become when blanketed in snow. And a school covered in snow was nothing compared to the smile of friendship.
Whether we were “cultured” in our museum visit or completely undignified as we threw snowballs at each other, the smiles of my friends were the true beauty. Every Thursday night, this same group of friends gather together to study the Bible. We start by sharing the “highs and the lows” of the week. Each friend bravely shares a struggle and a moment during the week that made them especially happy.
Last night, I stepped into a masterpiece that became both my high and my low—literally. Fifteen of us frolicked; it felt like were the only ones in the world. Hannah’s mom got her a sled. Using that and a couple of plastic bags, we paved the perfect sledding route. I casually mentioned that it would be fun to build a ramp to make the ride a little bit more interesting. Immediately, four friends shuffled down the hill with me to pile up some snow. It was the best sled ride of my life. We didn’t build the ramp very high or very far from the start of the slope, effectively making the flight happen in a warped sort of slow motion.
So is life in this beautiful season of artwork. I watch the light shine in a way that only a Master can paint it. But there are also bumps along the way. Places in the painting where the shadows are more enticing than the places the light touched. Everyone has lows of the week, times when emotions pile up, friends get sick, and pain deludes the sight. But the love of the Lamb is our light. The light of the Lion paves way for our love. The Master of Peace is displaying masterpieces of love all around us.