As a kid, I lived on Fairfield County’s version of Walton’s Mountain. Our green-shingled home with its gambrel roof proudly overlooked pastoral vistas in all directions. Three out of four seasons, we cast our vision like royalty over kingdoms below. But when the calendar called for January, our tiny farm pulled her shoulders up around her ears and braced against the certain arctic blast, resolute and determined to withstand yet another harsh winter. The same high hill that provided picturesque vistas also promised cheek-blistering winter winds.
County roads seldom saw a snow plow in the 1950’s, so there was only one way off our mountain: tire chains. The rhythmic clatter of tire chains on frozen snow remains a pleasant memory for me and a haunting nightmare for Dad. Dad always seemed to be caught off guard when bad weather enveloped our hilltop. Marvin was a world class procrastinator who scrambled feeble excuses with the same acuity of Braxton Miller eluding a pass rush. He hedged his bets on the hope that the weatherman didn’t know what he was talking about. Reluctantly, he finally conceded to the storm’s reality. Bundled and mumbling, he shoveled until he could lie beneath the car and attach the frozen tire chains.
I pressed my nose against the frosted kitchen window and prayed that God would somehow cause the icy clump of chains to magically cooperate with Dad’s frozen fingers. With the snow blowing sideways, he braced against the elements and painfully manipulated the stubborn chains onto the rear snow treads. There was no getting around it—tire chains were the only chance he had to get off that hill to the dairy where he worked. On more than one occasion, he busted back into the house, covered in snow, and announced he was stuck in a drift at the bottom of the hill. But he didn’t quit. He warmed himself by the fire and set out again, snow shovel in hand. I marveled at his tenacity. My respect piled higher than the drifts he attacked, and I began to anticipate the day I would be man enough to take on the winter elements like my Dad.
When the snow flies and the cancellations mount, I smile and think, “Bring it on!” Marilyn is convinced I’m crazy, but I actually welcome the challenge of a good snowfall. I’m not bragging, but my church board had to set the criteria for when we should cancel church on account of weather… because, left to my own devices… well, if you need me, I’ll be shoveling the sidewalk at the church.
Fortitude and persistence aren’t as applauded as they once were. We’re a much more “rational” culture today. And, perhaps that’s as it should be. But I enjoy a good challenge once in a while, just for the sake of effort.
The Lord Jesus didn’t allow a “no vacancy” sign stop his arrival. The threat of beatings and crucifixion didn’t stop Him from going to the cross on our behalf. In return, Jesus asks us to follow in his footsteps and do good to others, even when they don’t return the favor.
It’s not for the faint of heart, but those with a heart of faith.
In Jesus’ own words:
“I tell you, love your enemies. Help and give without expecting a return. You’ll never—I promise—regret it. Live out this God-created identity the way our Father lives toward us, generously and graciously, even when we’re at our worst. Our Father is kind; you be kind.”
Luke 6:35-36