Death of a Snowbank

by Susan Gove

Driving home from church, the radio is turned on. Unwilling to listen to the cacophony of voices spewing advice, the radio is switch to the CD’s used specifically as a mental refuge. The soft voices of the Rose Ensemble rise magnificently thru the air and outside the dirt-filled snow banks, crusty, shiny, melt away into the good earth nourishing all that is to be. As the sun rises to the fresh smell of loamy soil, the brown horizontal grass gives way to hints of Verde green. Crocus strut there blooms in the breeze, reaching skyward and praising the day. The chorus of birds, songs riding on the air waves, skim through the tree branches. It is a glorious day.

The heart melts, leaps. It rejoices at the death of the dreariness of late winter and the hope that is revealed. But sadness quickly settles in at the realization that this hope comes at a cost – the death of a snow bank, crusty, old and unsightly, once arrayed in bridal white and gently adorned by soft flakes of snow. The snow bank, shrinking, giving away all that it is. There is mourning, too, and this we must remember in our joy.

Thus we are reminded of the value of everything. That is what communion is to me: the coming together of all of humanity proclaiming acceptance of each individual with love as they are. Christ died for us that we might have life everlasting and we commemorate all that he is in the sharing of communion. With communion we are nourished, as the earth is, in the death of a snow bank.

During Lent 2011, we are encouraging the St. Philip the Deacon community to reflect on the Sacrament of Holy Communion — recalling early memories, describing memorable celebrations of Communion, or reflecting on how Communion informs daily life. This post is part of that series. We invite your reflections about Communion, as well. If you would like to submit something for this series, please send it to Pastor Cheryl Mathison at

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