Speaking of memories, this week snowmageddon has come to mind and come up in conversation. That winter of 2009-2010 brought a series of major storms starting before Christmas and stretching into February that left all of us reeling and more than a little beat up. One evocative similarity is how, beginning with Fourth Advent, they all came on weekends except for the final storm, which started on the Feast of the Presentation, a Tuesday that year. It is funny the things you remember.
In a rare example of forecast accuracy, last weekend’s storm came as promised and on schedule. This prompted an enormous effort to get to Mass while it was still possible, and the turnout we had here Saturday evening was huge, almost like Christmas. After the promised frozen fun began to fall overnight, morning Mass attendance was down too. The 7:30 Mass had THREE hardy souls in the pews. Then music director John Henderson and several servers made it through the perils, and the eighteen people who over-achieved to reach the 9:00 Mass enjoyed a full-bore Sunday experience. That number in the pews doubled at the 11:00, when the next batch of undeterred servers even provided incense and John was joined by several choristers. I do not know about those other folks, but the delight of offering a worthy sacrifice to the Lord on His day was as invigorating as the fresh air outside. I was gratified by the effort by so many people put into sanctifying Sunday.
That morning Mass experience left me so revved up I trekked out across the tundra and the Beltway to join some parishioners who hunkered by the fire and rejoiced in a hearty lunch together. It had been several years since I had walked through nearly knee-deep snow. It had only been since Corpus Christi in June since I walked in the middle of the street down Colesville Road, which was a better option than the sidewalk.
Best of all was Tuesday when finally, the plows reached Swink Manor where Father Swink had been convalescing and he was able to achieve exit velocity to return home to the Holy House of Soubirous. He found a warm welcome from me and Fr. Wiktor, the latter having been doing yeoman’s work to fill his shoes on the Mass and confession schedule and being my sole interlocutor at the dinner table especially during these days of frozen isolation.
I have yet to hear a peep of complaint about schools remaining closed, though my sample does skew toward my altar servers who seem to be enjoying their frozen freedom with gusto. How long this will last, I cannot guess, and restlessness among the parents to see their charges returned to the rigors of routine is helpless in the face of the governing bureaucratic liability logic that makes the unquestionable, unreviewable decisions about such matters. Maybe this will spur an uptick in private prayer in an appeal to a higher power.
Now we are confronted with the possibility of another winter wonder crashing our party this coming weekend. I must admit, I would rather move on to the next thing, and if that cannot be spring yet, then maybe we could just try clear and cold. But if the wet airmass from the Gulf collides with this arctic air over our heads and homes, clearly we will have more of the same. It may not merit the -pocalypse or -mageddon suffixes, but it is turning into a winter to remember.
