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Accept the snowfall as the appointed providence for the winter months, and wait till the voice which the winds obey calls to His south wind, “Blow upon My garden.” (In the high Alps they watch for the Föhn when it blows, the snow melts, and the upland meadows are like the valley of ripe corn in the psalm: they shout for joy, they also sing—they sing in flowers.)
To accept the will of God never leads to the miserable feeling that it is useless to strive any more. God does not ask for the dull, weak, sleepy acquiescence of indolence. He asks for something vivid and strong. He asks us to co-operate with Him, actively willing what He wills, our only aim His glory. To accept in this sense is to come with all the desire of the mind unto the place which the Lord shall choose, and to minister in the name of the Lord our God there—not otherwhere. Where the things of God are concerned, acceptance always means the happy choice of mind and heart of that which He appoints, because (for the present) it is His good and acceptable and perfect will.
Dr. Way understands St. Paul’s great Song of Contentment to mean this:
“He answered me, ‘Sufficient for thee is My grace; it is in the forge of infirmity that strength is wrought to perfection.’ Most cheerfully, then, will I boast of my frailty, rather than murmur, so that over me, as a tent, may be spread the might of Messiah. And so I am contented in the midst of frailty, outrages, sore straits, persecutions, privations, all for Messiah’s sake; for it is just when I am frail that I am truly strong.” The words “in the midst of” bring the thought down from cloudland to plain earth. And if it seems impossible to live so, “Rest upon God to do for you more than you can understand.”
There is nothing cloudy or nebulous about a life lived on these peaceful lines. If the trial be illness, there is the prayer of faith, the obedience of faith, and a steadfast working together with the powers of healing. If it be the long strain of uncertainty, that weariest of all straining things, there is an eager and attentive and yet peaceful waiting, like the waiting of the little ship near the shore that was ready at the slightest sign to set sail with the Master; ready, too, to wait there till He made that sign. If the sorrow be an absence that must continue for a while, there is the refusal of disheartening, weakening thoughts and the settling of the will to lay hold upon words of everlasting consolation. Unreserved acceptance opens the way for the turning of the captivity—“whoso offereth thanksgiving glorifieth Me and prepareth a way that I may show him the salvation of God.” It makes for the quickening of life under the snow, and for the serenity which flows from interior peace.
O thou beloved child of My desire,
Whether I lead thee through green valleys,
By still waters,
Or through fire,
Or lay thee down in silence under snow,
Through any weather, and whatever
Cloud may gather,
Wind may blow—
Wilt love Me? trust Me? praise Me?
Then there is what the Septuagint calls a “Song of Pause.” This is the snow song of a contented heart, answering the question of its Lord, “Wilt love Me? trust Me? praise Me?” It comes before the shouting song of the flowers and the yellow corn.
The snow-time is full of quiet secrets too, for we are carefully keeping secrets with our God about the growing things under the snow, secrets like those a child keeps with its mother, little private understandings not to be spoken aloud. A glance, a smile, a touch of the hand—that is their speech.
Sometimes there are beautiful things that would not have been if there had not been snow. “There were never any prisons of suffering that I was in, but still it was for the bringing multitudes more out of prison,” said George Fox after his bitterest snowstorm. These inward cherishings of joy lead to what the older Friends called “a cool and tender Frame of spirit.” There is no futile restlessness: if we have hope that another may be helped by something we have found under the snow.