About Power, Presence, and Paying Attention
How do you feel about cold weather?
Come closer.
Feel the sting of a winter that doesn’t ask permission.
In Mapleton, cold wasn’t just weather—it was a presence. A character. A kind of teacher.
It piled snow into drifts taller than a boy and dared you to push back.
I was seven, maybe six, when I learned what cold could teach—not just how to shiver, but how to listen.
That winter didn’t knock.
It barged in—loud, rude, relentless.
Snow didn’t fall; it built walls. Shoulder-high.
I pushed back. Most days, I lost. Some days, I held my ground just long enough to think I could outmuscle the wind—until I ducked behind a snowbank, gasping.
That wind?
It wasn’t just air. It was a beast.
Mom kept Wonder Bread bags in a Folgers coffee can under the sink, still dusted with crumbs.
We’d pull them out, slide them over our socks like crinkly armor, then wrap rubber bands around our shins to hold them in place.
Then came the boots—black, buckled up the shin with silver clasps that snapped like knight’s armor.
Snow pants stiffened our steps. Coats bunched at the shoulders. Nothing moved easy.
We didn’t dress for comfort—we dressed to survive.
Out we went, Danny and I—bundled, booted, flung into the white wild.
Together, technically. But the wind had other plans.
It howled and twisted between us, swallowed our voices, turned us into explorers on separate planets.
We climbed snowbanks that gave out after three steps.
I fell, laughed, shouted into the gusts.
My scarf was a nuisance—too tight and not tight enough—and the cold still sliced through.
Then—
I stopped.
Right there in the swirl.
Boots planted.
Mittens heavy and wet—the old kind, before waterproofing was a thing.
One hand rose, slow, like Moses in a backyard wilderness.
And I spoke—not whispered—spoke to the wind:
Stop.
And it did.
For a heartbeat—maybe less—the world hushed.
Snow fell straight.
The wind held its breath.
It felt like time paused just for me.
I stood there, stunned.
Seven, maybe six.
Sunday school stories rushing in—Jesus calming storms, walking on water, feeding thousands with almost nothing.
I believed He was close.
Maybe behind the shed.
Maybe pacing the frozen cornfield, wind in His beard, kindness in His eyes.
Maybe smiling from the swaying tree.
For that blink, I believed His power was shared.
Then the wind came roaring back—hard and mocking.
I tried again—nothing.
Again—stillness gone.
I stared at my mitten—confused, a little betrayed.
Like it had made a promise it couldn’t keep.
Had I done it wrong? Was I too small? Too ordinary?
Or was I just a kid trying to hold something too big?
Bootsy was out there too—
our black-and-white border collie, joy in motion, nose down, tail up, wind in his fur and nothing to prove.
He dove into drifts, sneezed, barked at things we couldn’t see.
We trusted him to know.
He was our herder, our guardian, our snow-day sentinel—except when he vanished on one of his secret missions.
Dad said dogs stayed outside.
My sisters disagreed.
But Bootsy ruled the cold.
He didn’t flinch.
He watched the horizon.
And I swear—he believed I’d stopped the wind.
I didn’t, of course.
But something stopped that day.
Time, maybe.
Doubt.
The line between imagination and mystery.
I carry that moment like a snowflake in a mitten—never melted.
And with it, this question:
What if power isn’t control?
What if it’s presence?
What if it’s standing in the storm—watching, waiting, showing up?
I’m no prophet.
But I became something else:
A listener.
A watcher.
A boy who learned that sometimes the wind does pause—if you’re paying attention.
So—cold weather?
It’s not my enemy.
It carved me.
It taught me to wait for the hush in the howl.
And even now, when the snow falls sideways and suddenly stills,
I raise a mittened hand—just in case.
And I look for Him—
grinning like Bootsy,
ears up,
waiting for me to hear.
And you?
When did the wind pause for you?
What’s your cold weather story?
Tags: Memoir, Childhood Memories, Faith and Spirituality, Winter Stories, Dogs and Pets, Personal Growth, Storytelling, Nature and Seasons, Coming of Age, Mystical Experiences
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