Waiting for Snow – J. Pace Warfield-May

This week’s reflection on our Advent theme – “What I am waiting for this Advent” – is a deeply evocative post by Graduate Theological Union Ph. D. student, and queer Lutheran systematic theologian, J. Pace Warfield (they, them, theirs). And what are they waiting for? Snow. But it has less to do with the change of seasons and more to do with needing the kind of pause that only the earth can provide, pause that we desperately need. Read, comment, and share.

Francisco Herrera – Interim Blog Editor, Ph.D. student 

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You are beautiful as Tirzah, my love,

              comely as Jerusalem,

              terrible as an army with banners.

Turn away your eyes from me,

              for they overwhelm me.

   – Song of Solomon 6:4-5

 

In time the snow will rise, in time the snow will rise.

In time the Lord will rise, in time the Lord will rise.

– Sufjan Stevens, “That was the Worst Christmas Ever!”

I have not had a snow day in nearly five years.

Moving from the mid-Atlantic region of the country to Bay Area California came with much change but losing the continual four note basso continuo of seasons that had enveloped all I had known my entire life—with change and fiery leaves, yellow curtains of pollen and flurries of snow—was among the hardest. It is weird how much the background of seasons impacts your life until it is suddenly gone and replaced with two: dry and rainy. After four years in Berkeley I returned to Maryland where I write this. It has not snowed yet, not significantly, anyway, but I have heard whispers that this will be a snowy winter, and I could not be more excited.

There is a beauty to waking up from yet another night of restlessness, with harried plans and a to-do list chipping away at every conscious thought fresh on my mind, to look outside and see a world forced to be still. A world shrouded in white and blue, painted onto every tree and house and car by a thick brush. To-do list be damned; it has been replaced with powdered hot chocolate in novelty mugs, time with my beloveds under faded flannel blankets that have the fainted smell of dust and binge-watching favorite television shows and movies.

There is a beauty to seeing snow on snow. To the way the air seems to crackle and your breath clouds in front of you. To the sweat on your brow as you shovel the sidewalk and feel simultaneously frozen and overheated in your winter clothes. The way everything seems so still and quiet. The snow as beautiful as Tirzah, as comely as Jerusalem. There is beauty to everything being still, at rest.

And yet, there is terror that lurks within the banks of snow. Those without heat or home, those who still are forced to labor in treacherous conditions. Those who lose pay because their work is shut down. And there is terror in the way everything is seemingly at rest, at wait. To the way the world seems dead and cold to the touch, or worse, the stillness of a predator about to pounce. Winter comes beautiful and terrible as an army with many banners.

Winter comes in a swirl of snow and cold; stare into the blue eyes of Winter, do not look away from her piercing gaze as she chills your heart with her terrible beauty. Turn your eyes away from me, dear Winter, for they overwhelm me.

I long for the quiet of snow days, for the rest and sabbath they bring to me. I long for the quietness of mind that I can have when I can finally just turn it off, even if only for a day. I long for the terrible, beautiful, serenity. Snow on snow, I am terrified of the quiet.

Snow on snow, I long for the quiet. I am waiting for a snow day.

I am waiting for rest. 

I’m tired of waiting.

I have slept six hours in three days. My hands shake as I pace circles in the living room, the carpet wearing thin under my heels. This is not the first time I have traced these lines into the floor. My mind does not stop moving, it does not slow down.  This is not the first time my mind runs a marathon dragging me behind it. My heart beats in my throat. I try to swallow it back into my chest but my mouth is too dry. I’m tired of waiting for sleep.

I want nothing more than to stop, but my legs carry me in epicycles as I pace in orbit around the couch, my mind in a state of panic. I have lived with anxiety as long as I remember; I have paced circles into many a floor. The older I get, the harder it is to live with. The older I get, the more tired I am.

Emotions are like a multicolored spectrum for me. As I sink deeper into anxiety and depression, the colors begin to fade until there are only shades of gray that remain. I seem to watch life happen to me but cannot muster any emotional response. I’m trapped in a black and white film, feeling disembodied as the action happens around me. I want to shout “enough” but to shout takes energy and I have none. I’m tired of waiting to feel something, anything, other than dread and exhaustion.

I’m tired of living in a world on the brink of ecological collapse. I’m tired of waiting for those with power to do something. I’m tired of waiting with fear and anticipation for the 2020 election. I’m tired of waiting for healthcare to be seen as a human right, not as a privilege for the wealthy. I’m tired of the constant fear and panic being a queer person (or any other minority) in 2019 brings.

I’m tired of waiting for resurrection and hope in a world that no longer seems possible. I’m tired of the promise of spring when we are in the midst of winter. I’m tired of being a flamed-faced child for an apocalypse on the verge of unfolding. I’m tired of waiting in advent when my soul is so ready for incarnation. For justice, for peace, for the world to come.

I am tired of the sword against our necks. When is it time to beat them into plowshares? 

Sleep finally comes. I wake up the next morning. No snow, no rest. Not yet. But the air is cold. The dread in my stomach has been replaced with sadness and with something else, a spark of something. Is it hope? Feeling something, anything, other than dread is a beautiful, terrible feeling. Turn your eyes away from me, for they overwhelm me.

I step outside and feel the sun send warmth to my face. In time, the snow will rise. In time, I will get my snow day and my sacred rest. In time, justice will flow like rivers and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.

In time, yes, the Lord will rise.

Until then, I wait. Overhead, the clouds begin to block the sun. The sky turns gray, making the landscape with the naked trees feel dead and barren. A piece of cloud falls from the sky, tumbling in the winter air. It falls onto my hand and lingers a moment before melting against my skin. Today is already better than yesterday. A second flurry, then a third.

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J. Pace Warfield-May (they/them/their) is a PhD student at the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, California and received their MA in systematic theology from the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Gettysburg (now United Lutheran Seminary). They are studying systematic theology, with research interests in Martin Luther and the Reformation, queer theology, and deconstruction. Pace presently lives in the Baltimore-DC metropolitan area with their husband, Matt, and two dogs.