A Winter's Day in the Gentle Way

God's gifts are everywhere, even in the depths of the season

Artwork: Christmas Eve Artist: Mellodee

By Meridith Fisk

Before the sun winks over the horizon; in hours when coffee and breakfast are yet pleasant plans for future, there is a stir. Like mice in the pantry during the still hours of night, children’s bodies bump. Their whispers and stifled laughter creates an atmosphere of quiet scurrying. The house sighs for whomever will listen, “This is the Gentle Way.”

My socked feet pad downstairs, pausing at the threshold to the kitchen. The commotion is isolated to the kitchen closet, which acts like a mudroom to our lakeside home. A warm glow creeps from under the door. Leaning against the wall, I can’t help but catch their contagious excitement as the moment washes over me. A giggle bubbles up out of my throat.

Tiny-voiced whispers reach my ears, while the sun begins to paint the day onto the southeastern horizon, “Have you seen my glove?” “Where’s my hat?” “Can you help me with my zipper?” “Shhhh! They’re going to think we are robbers!” My heart swells with love for these small pieces of me. This is the Gentle Way.

For weeks, the younger residents of our home anticipated ice skating on our lake once it reached a safe thickness. Their games transitioned from treehouse building to “ice harvesters” as temperatures began to fall like the leaves from their tree. Faithfully, a report was brought to those at home after each adventure, “The ice is about 1/2 an inch.” “The ice is white and nearly 2 inches.” “I brought a sample. It is with the others on the deck. Come see!” “The ice is getting so thick we can hardly harvest it. We will be skating soon!”

Negative temperatures at night and highs in the teens during the day marked the arrival of winter’s deep hibernation. For weeks prior, geese honked farewells from carefully rehearsed “V’s” overhead. My children’s laughter took their place on the shoreline where they assessed the ice’s progress. The land: hushed under layers of snow. The air: crisp and cold. The lake: thick, white, and finally ready! This is the Gentle Way.

This morning, as if on cue from a ringmaster, the door to the closet pushes open and, like clowns tumbling from a tiny car, half-sized humans emerge, carefully bundled in winter garb despite mittened hands.

“Good morning, Mother!” Their enthusiastic greetings reflect the excitement shining from each pair of eyes, “We are going ice-skating!” Their bodies bumble tumble towards me, each one getting a hug before going on their way. This is the Gentle Way.

Running through the yard to the dock, the kids have only one focus, laughing and shouting the whole way. They couldn’t even wait for the the day to properly begin before making acquaintances with their new, icy playground. Slow ambling is not an option at such a time as this. Ice skates were never laced with such dexterity.

They skate figure 8’s in groups, break off alone, trace big O’s, and twirl like dancers in a ballroom. Their innocent joy calls to me at the kitchen window where I take in their winter wonderland antics. Loosing myself in the thrill of this moment, I am drawn to follow. This season has a way of coaxing the sentimentality out. I respond by hastily donning winter things and run through the yard in their tracks, ice skates knocking at my shins. This is the Gentle Way.

The dock is my bench as I lace up each skate. This same dock, where I was entertained by fish and ducks during warmer months, is now a winter perch from which I observe my children’s icy frolics. Some have moved on land to create a snowman, sacrificing a scarf and hat for him as he smiles from under his carrot-nose.

Gliding onto the ice I feel simultaneously weightless and grounded. To fear the fall is to miss the moment, so I push off finding stability in rhythm. Cold fills my lungs, happy chatter fills my ears, hues of blue mixed with creams and browns fill my eyes.

Before long, the smallest one looks up at me, fitting her mitten in mine. I know, without words, what her pink cheeks can’t hide: her time to go in has arrived. The older ones’ voices fade into the distance as we trek to the house mitten-in-mitten, trailing puffy, white breath-clouds as we go. This is the Gentle Way.

This day has played its tune and it’s expiration draws near. Outside, the southwestern sky glows orange, pink, and purple. Inside, candlelight dances on our dining table mimicking the horizon’s grandeur. I put the kettle on to boil. Mugs and teas are artistically arranged, waiting for their moment of service. Music floats in the air like heat out of the the vents. A distant train whistle adds its note to the melody like a wandering owl over the snowscape.

The smallest child has gone out again and can be seen by the snowman, adding finishing touches. She wanders in full of icy air. Once unwrapped from her outdoor clothing, her stocking feet slide to my side, “Feel my fingers. What do they feel like?”

“Like ice cubes straight out of the freezer. Here, take Sweet Rabbit. Let his furry belly warm your little fingers,” I hand over the rabbit who was nestled contentedly in my arms. She sighs into his fur, two sharing one moment of mutual comfort. This is the Gentle Way.

As the sun kisses the sky goodnight, my older children blow through the door with a gust of energy. Chill has left her handprint stamped on their sweet cheeks and dancing through their eyes like the stars beginning to twinkle in the sky. Onion layers of winter clothing are shed by the door in a mountainous reminder of the wonderful bodies that filled them. Larger, frozen hands reach for warm mugs of steaming tea to aid with the thaw, while tiny hands, already warm, tickle a tinkling tune across the keys of the piano. Laughter ebbs and flows. Bodies warm. The home is full again. This is the Gentle Way.

Moonbeam-glow through gossamer curtains marks the deepening of night. Tiny, kissed foreheads, nestled on pillows and under quilts, await the adventures of dreams. The hustle of our evening routine has passed leaving calm in its wake. Curled up in an oversized chair under amber lamp light, my heartbeat syncopates with the clock’s ticking. Embroidery occupies my hands, while wonderful events and conversations of the day occupy my thoughts. I tug teal thread through white cotton, painting pictures with the swooshing flow of pulling floss. A subtle pop and the needle plunges beneath taut fabric. The snip of my scissors marks that my cotton painting has reached completion for now. This is the Gentle Way.

In his study, I can hear my husband working; clicking out the words written on his heart for others to discover. Letting his sounds of productivity lead, I go to him and kiss his forehead, not desiring to disturb the thoughts within. He stops his writing to wrap his arms around my waist, pulling me into his lap. We laugh as I cup his face in my hands, allowing my mind to memorize his features. This is the Gentle Way.

As a final adieu to the day, I tiptoe upstairs to draw a bath; matches in one hand, mug of licorice tea in the other, and a letter from far away tucked under my arm.

Candlelight dances when I sink to my chin in lavender scented water. My movements cause floating candles to bob and sway around me. In the calm and quiet of another day slipping off to memory, I sip tea, reading the letter earlier left by the mailman in my letterbox. Though written by a friend who lives many miles away, her love reaches to me now through her kind words, creating a warmth in my heart. I take in a deep, cleansing breath, allow it to sigh out, and whisper, “Alleluia. Amen.”

This is the Gentle Way.