My students are preparing to recite Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" on Friday. It seemed appropriate for January, even though the month is drawing to a close now without much of any snow to show for it. No matter how much any of these kids put into it, I'm not sure any of them will recite it quite like Frost does in a mere 55 seconds, a 55 seconds that instantly transports you into those woods and ends all too soon. You can hear and feel the wind blow when he says somewhat gruffly, "The only other sound's the sweep of easy wind and downy flake." I tend to assume that most literary types look down on Frost, mostly as a consequence of his sentiments appearing on so many trite greeting cards and cheap wall hangings. All I know is I'm a sucker for it, especially when he's doing the reading.Today in chapel before I left for Mildred's funeral, the chaplain was talking about snowflakes. It was actually much better than the average metaphorical snowflake inspirational pep talk, even though the heart of the message ended up being about the same. She shared the story of Snowflake Bentley, the obsessed man who dedicated his life to the study and photography of individual snowflakes. He's one reason we know so much about the things, and his extensive catalogue of photographs serves to prove that each flake is in fact unique, one of a kind. I've got to admit, the mere idea of a grown man having such an infatuation with snowflakes makes me grin. So obsessed, it seems, that the only photographs of the man to be found on the internet are of him hunched over his camera, waiting to find another one.
So yes, we've all heard the analogy: snowflakes and unique, special, one of a kind, and so are we. Feel good about yourself. Use your talents and gifts. Yes.But the chaplain managed to touch on a few other aspects of snowflakes, intentionally or not, that captured my attention much more, perhaps because it was unusual snowflake metaphor territory.
No snowflake is perfect. Each one seems to have a blemish of some sort. All a bit flawed.
Snowflakes don't live a very long life.
And they don't do much good on their own.
Yes, this is where my mind started wandering. Because what snowflake has ever canceled school all by itself? What good is just one snowflake? Nice to look at in a microscopic photograph, sure, but how many snowflakes does it take to coat the trees in a serene landscape? What snowflake has ever been called a blizzard? As unique and special as a snowflake is, if it wants to amount to anything, it must give itself up to the greater cause. We can give everyone warm fuzzies by telling kids over and over how unique and special they are, but the fact of the matter is, if we want to amount to anything, we must do the same.
And this means death. I don't know much about snow, but I assume it doesn't take long after a flake falls in with the others before it melts a bit and fuses together, losing its shape or at the very least its individuality, and forming a nice coating or adding up to several inches or more. As soon as one snowflake joined the others, Bentley had no chance of photographing it.
The life of a flake is obviously fragile and short. Raise the temperature just a bit--in the air, on a mitten, or under a chunk of salt--and it's done. It's death is inevitable. The question is whether it insists on flying off alone to melt by itself or committing itself to a greater cause full of sledding, snowballs, sculptures, angels, days off, giggles, joy, beauty.
I'm starting to feel a little weird talking about snowflakes and giving them so much personality. But the truth of the matter, as James says, is that our life is a mist, a vapor, that appears for a little while and vanishes before we know it. It's incredibly fragile, death is inevitable.
With this fragile life, we can choose to live it for ourselves, trying desperately to aim for Bentley's little black platform for our 15 minutes of fame and pleasure. Or, we can die to ourselves despite our beautiful uniqueness, joining with others, and committing our lives to something bigger and better.
We don't want to talk to kids about death, but isn't there a great joy to be found in this kind?
Denison Witmer sings, "Today I feel a part of something bigger than myself, a raindrop in the sea, a book between books on the shelf."
Jesus Christ says, "I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life."
Aaron Weiss writes, "Six of my closest friends dig up the ground, all of my accomplishments gently lowered down...Grape on the vine, why not be crushed to make wine?"
Today I carried the casket of a woman who lived a humble life, living in the same house for more than 70 years, working at the same bank for 50, worshiping in the same church for 95. Some would be tempted to make a name for themselves with all sorts of crazy dreams and aspirations and ambitions, thinking their life wouldn't mean much otherwise, and they would go on to die like the rest of us. Mildred chose to die to herself much sooner and became a part of something bigger and better. She was a woman who understood what the church and the body of Christ was designed and intended to be. The Holy Spirit made a sweet wine with the fruit she offered.
And that's the best part of what made her unique, special, and one of a kind.