Lost in the Snow

 

 

In the early 70s, Paul and I, not yet married, lived in the dorms at Faith Baptist Bible College in Ankeny, Iowa. Almost everyone who lived on campus knew almost everyone who lived on campus.

 One of Paul’s dorm mates was John, who, like many babies of the 40s and 50s, had been blinded by being given too much oxygen at his premature birth. (This problem was identified and the procedure changed in 1956.) John was completely blind, navigated with the aid of a white cane, and was immensely strong, coordinated and independent. He knew the campus grounds and buildings perfectly, using the guidelines of curbs, sidewalks, grass, thresholds and sounds.

 John’s ability to function normally was absolutely reliable. Once when there was a problem with a leaky water pipe in their dorm, the roommates sent John out to “look for” the maintenance man. He walked outside, listened for the sound of the big mower, went to the area and stood still directly in the path the mower would be taking. Uncle Herb stopped the mower, asked John what he wanted and went to the dorm to fix the leak.

 In Iowa, snow doesn’t just fall. It drifts. Inches and inches of snow, combined with the usual winds, form elongated piles of snow, which seem to be randomly placed and which may move as the storm goes on. They can be very deep – anything from one to four feet deep, more if there is a heavy snow. Over time, the drifts can solidify. We have a photo of a classmate standing on a snowdrift with his foot atop a street sign. I’ve seen cows walk over a fence on a snowdrift.

 Snow was a particular problem to John, as it obliterated the landmarks. He could lose track of the curbs, the sidewalks and the grass. During one particularly wild snowstorm, someone realized that John was missing – not in dorm or class or lunchroom or library. The word spread (even without cell phones) and friends became alarmed, knowing he would not be able to find his way around. Had he gone out and gotten lost? No one could find him safe in any building. There was confusion and concern, rising as time went on. Eventually, someone contacted the Dean of the school, and there it ended. John was in the living room, having tea with the Dean and his wife.

 Isn’t this a perfectly accurate depiction of our lives? We can’t actually see where our lives are going, and the drifts of life trip us up, even when we think we know the lay of the land.  Without the Lord, Who is much more than the Dean of our lives, we are lost in a storm worse than any snowstorm. But in reality, if we choose Him, we are safe in His living room, sharing tea and cookies. He’s right there, offering peace in our storms and safety for our souls. The storms are real and they are scary. So also His peace and comfort are real and His promises are the hope of a reality with Him forever.

 --Lynda Shenefield