"Do It Again."
A reflection on snow, surrender, and the beauty of changing seasons
Recently, I was talking with someone who spends their winters down south. They are what the native Floridians refer to as “snowbirds.” They told me that back where they live, there was already twenty inches of snow on the ground. I could almost hear the collective groan from a few of the folks nearby. You know the reaction: “I could never live in that… I can’t take the cold.”
I smiled, mostly because I realized how differently I hear those words now.
Snow is still relatively new for me. Since relocating our primary home to Tennessee, we’ve had our share of it this year, and I’ve found myself looking at it in a way I never expected. There’s a quiet refreshment in it, the kind that doesn’t announce itself loudly. The air turns crisp. The world softens. And if you pause long enough to watch it fall, drifting across a field or settling on bare branches, it feels less like an inconvenience and more like an invitation.
It’s an invitation to notice.
What strikes me most is the reminder that seasons don’t ask for our permission. Winter arrives, does its work, and eventually gives way to spring. The trees that look lifeless now will grow new leaves again. The ground that feels frozen will soften. It’s a built-in testimony that nothing — not the cold, not the barrenness, not even the quiet — is permanent.
Seasons change.
Circumstances change.
People change.
We change.
There’s a strange peace in watching snow fall, knowing I have absolutely no control over it. No vote. No influence. It comes when it comes and leaves when it leaves. And oddly enough, that lack of control feels freeing. It reminds me that I’m not the one holding everything together. I’m a small part of a much larger story — a tiny cog in a very big wheel — and remembering that puts life back into proper perspective.
Snow also teaches caution.
When the temperature shifts, what looks soft can become slick. Roads you’ve traveled a hundred times suddenly require attention. You slow down. You prepare. You move with care because you know there are hazards you can’t always see. Life works that way, too. Not every danger announces itself, and wisdom often looks like simply proceeding with awareness instead of speed.
The longer I watch the snow, the more it feels like a quiet teacher — reminding me what matters, what doesn’t, what I can control, and what I can’t. It whispers about patience. About perspective. About paying attention to the season you’re actually in instead of wishing for another one.
The video above was taken as the snow fell here in East Tennessee while I was writing this. I know that for some people, the sight of snow brings an immediate reaction: Oh no, not again.
But when I see it, my response is different.
I find myself looking out the window and quietly saying,
“Do it again, God. Do it again.”