On Snowfall, the Resurrection, and Beginning Again

“The scientist goes back over his calculations and renews his experiments by modifying them until he has found the object of his research. The writer shapes and reshapes his sentence twenty times. The sculptor breaks one rough model after another, as long as he cannot express his interior vision… All human ‘creations’ are the result of unwearied new beginnings.” Fr. Francis Fernandez

I can easily remember the excitement of a fresh snowfall as a child. Bundling up in snowpants and stuffing sock-swollen feet into our boots, my siblings and I would tramp out into the yard. Squinting as our eyes adjusted to the gleaming whiteness, we’d tilt our heads back to catch a flake or two on our tongues. Eagerly, we’d tramp around the yard, checking on our favorite play spots to see how the snow had transformed each one.

We’d run our hands along the top of the porch, dusting off the railings with a clean swipe of the glove.  One of our favorite snow games was pretending to be animals such as badgers or bears and making homes in the snow. We’d crawl around, paving tunnel passageways from room to room, packing down little piles of snow to make couches and stovetops. And when our snow homes were complete, we’d visit each other, proudly showing off our architectural feats.

There is something about a snowfall that reminds me of the Resurrection. During the darkest time of year, when the landscape is brown and bleak, the snow covers the land with its intense brilliance. Though I have grown up with snow all my life, it never fails to surprise me with delight, reminding me that light and hope still live on in the darkness of winter. Snow is a testament to the genius of our creator, who designed the earth with our needs in mind. When the warmth of the sun is at its lowest, we are given the snow to reflect the light more greatly. I believe it’s God’s way of saying He is always with us. 

Because of its capacity to store water, snow is actually considered a reservoir. It restores the earth with its moisture, filling the lakes, streams and brooks in the spring. It’s a natural form of magic that the very cold that causes all vegetation to wilt also brings snow to quietly replenish the ground with water for spring blooming. Snow brings the surprise of beauty into a difficult season, reminding us to keep going despite the darkness.  

In the winter especially, I treasure the morning hours when the sunlight pours forth in a deluge after the cold, black night. My children (usually) play most peacefully at this time while the warmth of a steaming cup of coffee invites me into a new day. Over time, I’ve come to understand that beginnings carry great importance. A Latin phrase I’ve recently come to love encapsulates this very idea. Nunc Coepi (pronounced noonk cheh’-pee) means “Now I begin.” It is an invitation to always begin again, to let each moment carry the force of the resurrection, the bloom of a new morn, and the strength of the starting line.

My children have taught me what it really means to begin. They can be crying in pain and then laughing the next moment. They can forget the past so easily, forgive faults with a smile, keep on keeping on better than I can most days. I think part of it is their endless youthful energy, their ability to run for hours on a cheese stick and a few crackers. But I think there’s another mysterious ability they possess of moving forward and not dwelling on the past. Of continually beginning again and again, never tiring of falling and getting back up once more. 

Growing up, my family had a practice of asking each other for forgiveness before we went to bed. My parents started the practice, and as each child grew older, we would take it on in turn. 

“Grace, do you forgive me for having offended you in anyway?” 

“Yes, do you forgive me?”

Whether the day had been filled with many arguments and offenses, or not, we formed a habit of asking forgiveness so we could begin the next day afresh. It bound us together in our broken humanity, forming a bond of humility that strengthened us in a resolve to always begin again, no matter how difficult our struggle.

 This is the power of the Resurrection. The power to begin always. And it is permanently available to us. Despite any darkness, in defiance of all despair, made possible by the sacrifice of God made man, we can always begin again.

“Nunc Coepi” has become something of a mantra for me this winter. In the midst of back-to-back illnesses, sleep loss, many days of being cooped up inside and desperate for sunshine, I have found myself repeating this phrase to myself. Nunc Coepi. Now I begin. Over and over again. In the face of mushy oatmeal messes, diaper explosions, negative thoughts, and physical discomfort—I’ve discovered there is no struggle that cannot be overcome by the Resurrection.

While the enchanting snowfall that I loved so much as a child still inspires me, I won’t deny that it’s also a burden. It cancels events, requires hours of shoveling and melts into slippery ice. Weathering a snowy winter demands determination and spirit. And so does the law of “Nunc Coepi.” To begin again requires a death, just like the Resurrection. It demands work, just like a heavy snowfall. But the harvest promises a strength that even the darkest of winters cannot overcome.