Snow: A Blessing from the Lord… and a Trial of Our Sanctification
As I stand in Montreal, gazing upon the 32 cm of snow that fell on Thursday and anticipating the additional 35 cm promised for Sunday, I find myself caught in a moment of deep theological reflection. I am, in essence, standing between two great trials—like Israel between the Red Sea and Pharaoh’s army, except instead of chariots, it’s snowplows that threaten to bury me alive.
Snow, after all, is a gift from God. Job 37:6 declares, “For to the snow he says, ‘Fall on the earth,’ likewise to the downpour, his mighty downpour.” The Lord commands the snow, and it obeys. No weather app, no government plow schedule, no desperate prayer for an early spring can alter its course. It falls precisely as the Lord ordains.
And let us not forget the beauty of it! Isaiah 1:18 reminds us:
“Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool.”
It’s a breathtaking image, isn’t it? Just as snow falls and covers everything—streets, sidewalks, and rooftops—so too does the grace of God cover the stain of our sin. We don’t brush it away ourselves. We don’t scrub the filth clean. The snow simply falls, and in a moment, what was dirty, marred, and broken is suddenly blanketed in pure white.
This is the heart of the gospel. We are not people who merely need a little improvement, a fresh start, or a second chance. No, our sins are scarlet, stained deep into the fabric of our souls. We cannot undo them. We cannot erase them. But God, in His mercy, offers a transformation so complete that He likens it to the brilliance of freshly fallen snow.
And yet, I must admit—perhaps because I will shovel my car out for the second time this week—that I sometimes wish the Lord had chosen a warmer metaphor for His cleansing power. Why not the golden glow of the morning sun? Or the fresh breeze of spring? Something that doesn’t require three layers of clothing and a sore back!
But maybe that’s precisely the point. Snow is not just beautiful—it’s also overwhelming. It transforms the landscape entirely. It buries what once was visible. It silences the noise. In the same way, when God forgives, He doesn’t merely lessen our sin—He buries it. “As far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us” (Psalm 103:12). What once defined us is no more. We stand, like the earth beneath fresh snowfall, made new.
Like a stubborn Montreal winter, the sin in our hearts still seeks to poke through. The footprints return. The dirt gets kicked up. The once-pristine landscape grows slushy and gray. But here’s the incredible promise: God’s mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). His grace is not a one-time snowfall but an endless covering, falling fresh, restoring, cleansing, and making all things new.
So the next time I step outside into the blinding white of a snow-covered morning, I will try—try—to grumble a little less. Because in every flake, God is whispering a reminder: This is what I do for you. I cover. I cleanse. I renew. And for that, even in the cold, I will be thankful.
As I stand—between the snow of yesterday and the snow of tomorrow. What else is the Lord inviting me into? Patience? Gratitude? A well-developed upper body from all the shoveling? Perhaps all three.
I could grumble. And truthfully, I do. As Philippians 2:14 exhorts, “Do all things without grumbling or disputing,” I realize that I might be in violation of this command every time I mutter about frozen windshields and disappearing sidewalks. Yet, even in my lament, I sense the Lord refining my character. Snow, after all, is not merely an inconvenience—it is an invitation to remember that I am not in control.
The snow will come. And after that, more snow. But perhaps, in Montreal’s winter wonderland, there is an invitation to wonder—at God’s power, at His provision (hot coffee, warm socks, a decent shovel), and at His unchanging nature in a season where everything else seems buried under shifting drifts.
So let us take heart. The snow will not last forever. Spring will come (probably by June), and in the meantime, we have an opportunity to rejoice—or at least, to shovel with slightly less complaining.
And if all else fails, we can take comfort in Proverbs 25:20: “Whoever sings songs to a heavy heart is like one who takes off a garment on a cold day.” Which is biblical permission, I believe, to kindly ask the overly cheerful winter enthusiasts to stop telling me how “magical” this is.
Stay warm, stay joyful, and may your shoveling be an act of sanctification.