In the white womb of winter, a man is reborn,
half-swallowed by snow, yet refusing the grave.
His arms thrust upward like two defiant trees
stripped bare by December, still reaching for sun.
One hand clutches scripture—small ark of black ink—
pages trembling against the wind’s white teeth.
The other hand opens, palm to the pale sky,
a beggar of mercy, a thief of the light.
See how the snow has sculpted him:
a sarcophagus of crystal, a baptism reversed.
He lies in the drift as Jonah lay in the whale—
not devoured, but delivered; not dead, but unmade.
His beard is hoarfrost, his breath a thin psalm
rising in curls like incense from frozen lips.
The book is his lantern, the word is his fire;
even buried, he burns, even silent, he sings.
Turn the gaze now—behold the second birth:
the same man, resurrected in laughter.
Snow explodes from his chest like a hosanna,
his mouth wide as the sky, teeth bright as new stars.
The book still aloft, but now it is banner,
not anchor; triumph, not plea.
His eyes squint with joy too fierce for the cold—
the glee of a child who has cheated the frost.
Between these two frames, the hinge of a soul:
one moment the penitent, drowning in white,
the next the redeemed, drunk on survival.
Both are the same man. Both are the same prayer.
This is the gospel according to snow:
you fall, you freeze, you forget your own name—
then something inside you remembers to laugh,
and the glacier cracks open, and heaven leaks through.
So let the drift cover you. Let the ice kiss your bones.
Hold fast to your book, whether weeping or praise.
For the winter that buries is also the womb,
and every grave in the snow is a doorway disguised.
Amen. Alleluia. The man in the drift
is every man, ever—
dying, rising, laughing,
still clutching the word
while the cold world applauds.
half-swallowed by snow, yet refusing the grave.
His arms thrust upward like two defiant trees
stripped bare by December, still reaching for sun.
One hand clutches scripture—small ark of black ink—
pages trembling against the wind’s white teeth.
The other hand opens, palm to the pale sky,
a beggar of mercy, a thief of the light.
See how the snow has sculpted him:
a sarcophagus of crystal, a baptism reversed.
He lies in the drift as Jonah lay in the whale—
not devoured, but delivered; not dead, but unmade.
His beard is hoarfrost, his breath a thin psalm
rising in curls like incense from frozen lips.
The book is his lantern, the word is his fire;
even buried, he burns, even silent, he sings.
Turn the gaze now—behold the second birth:
the same man, resurrected in laughter.
Snow explodes from his chest like a hosanna,
his mouth wide as the sky, teeth bright as new stars.
The book still aloft, but now it is banner,
not anchor; triumph, not plea.
His eyes squint with joy too fierce for the cold—
the glee of a child who has cheated the frost.
Between these two frames, the hinge of a soul:
one moment the penitent, drowning in white,
the next the redeemed, drunk on survival.
Both are the same man. Both are the same prayer.
This is the gospel according to snow:
you fall, you freeze, you forget your own name—
then something inside you remembers to laugh,
and the glacier cracks open, and heaven leaks through.
So let the drift cover you. Let the ice kiss your bones.
Hold fast to your book, whether weeping or praise.
For the winter that buries is also the womb,
and every grave in the snow is a doorway disguised.
Amen. Alleluia. The man in the drift
is every man, ever—
dying, rising, laughing,
still clutching the word
while the cold world applauds.
The Sunday Circle