February in the Intermountain West can prove exasperating. Two months past the Christmas season, the general population is anxious for spring to appear since the once-celebrated snow now appears worn and melancholy. Winter this year has made this especially so. Normally a fluffy drift doesn’t feel so frustrating, but lately the moisture has been fickle and infrequent, thus making the wintry chill dull—monotonous even.
Today the afternoon held a welcomed surprise. Much to my satisfaction, a beautiful downy snow began right before our hallowed napping hour, and its deafening quiet perfectly matched the calm in our home. Before long baby Coco stirred, eager for her afternoon feeding. I tiptoed into my room to feed her at my rocking chair adjacent to our French doors which overlook the backyard and the open golf course behind it. As I answered Coco’s hunger I smiled to listen to her tiny gulps, and glanced up at the tranquil scene outside the window. Large and irregular, the downy flakes meandered down gently, and reminded me of pieces of colorless cotton candy.
I paused to consider the wisdom in the snow. None of these flakes seemed to be in a hurry. Dancing to and fro, they ease their way downward, obviously enjoying their happy flight. It made them more beautiful, and I wondered if I could learn something about their approach. It seems that in the past I allowed myself to get sucked into the worldly notion that faster is always better. That philosophy asserts that if we don’t all join the rat race of doing more—more—more in less—less time then somehow we’ve failed. Truth is, it ain’t necessarily so.
Going to law school taught me that lesson. The culture surrounding that industry can be acquisitive and cutthroat. More often than not, attorneys enter the trade anxious with ambitious aspirations, only to find that it affords them little time with their families and if they haven’t daringly fought to protect their personal interests they invariably burn out, wishing for the luxuries of a “slower” profession. Though it took me a long time to detox from that philosophy, I can say I now enjoy the unhurried splendor of some of these quieter moments in my mothering.
As I continued to glance at the snowfall I smiled again and wondered whether or not what they say about no two snowflakes being the same is really true. As thousands of them streamed from the alabaster sky, I questioned whether or not it was really possible that none of them could ever emerge identically. . . So many, and each unique . . .
In that moment, I could help but think that we somehow resemble snowflakes. “God sees us this way,” I thought. We all descend on this earth with our own distinctive blueprint, lovely and picturesque in our own right, hoping to be recognized and loved as such. Looking down at my sweet baby I realized all too easily how obvious it is that a parent can differentiate between all the unique traits of each child, every one with his/her own design and pattern.
I closed my eyes and savored the moment in drowsy silence. With Ansel Adams stillness, I stood in awe of my Creator and my worth in His eyes . . . and for the first time this season, I thanked Him for Winter.
My littlest snowflake: 
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