Winter Stillness

In May 1980, we lived in Olympia, Washington. Mt. Saint Helens violently blew its top on the 18th and scattered devastation over a wide swath of the Pacific Northwest. One week later, Sunday the 25th, underground rumblings indicated that another eruption was ready to roar. Given the wind direction that day, and that Olympia is about 65 miles north of the mountain as a timber jay flies, public officials urged everyone to stay inside. So we filled the bathtub with water as advised by the authorities. I placed throw rugs across the threshold of the exterior doors and double checked that all windows were closed tightly to minimize the chance that volcanic ash would sift into the house.

Then I sat in the rocking chair and looked out the living room window expecting to see a once-in-a-lifetime show. It never came. By mid-afternoon my curiosity took over and I went outside. The silence was eerie. No traffic. No one else on the street. I felt like the world had come to a catastrophic end but somehow I survived.

I remembered that day in 1980 during the late arrival of an ice storm this past weekend. Early forecasts mentioned the ice storms of 2002, the worst on record, and 2007. We made runs to the store for necessities and stood in checkout lines with our neighbors. We looked at weather websites and tracked the storm via radar. I checked the city webcam for the intersection just two blocks from our house. When I was up in the middle of the night I flipped on the deck light to look for ice buildup on the railing. In the morning I ventured out the front door to gingerly confirm the slickeriness of the walkway. We had a little bit of ice, but nothing that even comes close to what 2002 dumped on us. Everything is back to normal this morning.

Similar to my experience in 1980, things were quiet in the neighborhood yesterday. I don’t know that I saw more than a couple of cars drive down the street the whole day. I didn’t notice anyone out walking the dog. Kids must have played inside because I didn’t hear their voices or see them romping in the yard. It was as if someone hit the pause button and the CD stopped spinning in the player.

This morning I’m wondering if a winter storm warning is one of the last culturally permissible reasons to observe Sabbath. The concept of a day to rest and rejuvenate is old, but seems to have been tossed aside as grossly antiquated by many persons. Even folks who claim to live under the authority of the Bible fail to observe Sabbath in any meaningful manner. Shutting down the smartphone and the 24/7 flow of information seems absurd to many, even if it is for just one day a week. Twenty-first century expectations shout over calls from Wisdom to slow down, to turn off, to recharge.

Until a winter storm waltzes into town. Then it seems like everyone is willing to be still for a while.