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I haven’t made a snow angel since 2011.

Oddly enough, with the vivid clarity sometimes endowed on seemingly inconsequential memories, I remember the occasion of my last snow angel.  I rushed out the door into the winter world and flopped backwards onto the fluff of pristine snow.  The sky was rapturously blue, the soaring hue of holiness.  I gazed at its vaulted dome while sweeping my arms and legs in the signature pattern.  Then I peeled myself carefully from the impression I’d made, traced a halo with a small stick, and admired the angel smiling from the snow. 

That memory was ten years ago, and I haven’t enjoyed the simple pleasure of making a snow angel for a decade.  Why?  For one simple reason:  I haven’t had enough snow.  

Here in Arkansas, our average winter snowfall is—wait for it!—three inches.  Three inches???  For a whole winter?  To an inveterate snow lover like myself, that statistic is maddening.  And many seasons, even that three inches is optimistic.  Last October, our meteorologist predicted that this winter would feature “less snowfall than normal.”  So I’ve waited in vain all winter to see more than the barest trace of snow on the earth.  

It’s not the temperatures that prevent us from receiving more snow.  We have times when frost crackles on every branch and cold seems to creep from the earth itself and the clouds frown on a shivering world.  We have nights when the stars themselves quiver in the frosty darkness, and days when the watery sunshine is too weak to thaw the ground.  But instead of coming during these subfreezing periods, the precipitation waits until days with slightly higher temperatures—perhaps in the upper 40s or even 50s—and arrives not as snow, but rain.  

This pattern generally repeats for the duration of the winter:  a long stretch of bitterly cold but dry days will be broken by three or four days of precipitation, with the temperature just high enough to guarantee nothing more glamorous than a cold, churlish rain.  The temperature drops following the rain, and the cycle begins all over again. 

I find this maddening, because I love snow with a passion.  Granted, I’m aware that this form of winter weather is somewhat of a polarizing topic, with its fair share of detractors.  I also admit that on the rare occasions when snow has downed power lines or impeded travel, I’ve been less than thrilled.  And yes, part of my attraction to snow may stem from its novelty; perhaps if it were common in an Arkansas winter, it would cease to be magical.  But even with these practical considerations, I can think of few natural phenomena more delicately beautiful than a snowfall.  The handful of serious snowstorms I’ve experienced have transformed our property into a fairyland, and even as I write, snapshots fill my memory:  a pristine blanket of whiteness over the nakedness of the winter landscape…slanting sunbeams sparkling on the drifts…forests flocked like Christmas trees…the hushed holiness, filled with miraculously perfect snowflakes whirling from the heavens…animal tracks stamped into the snow, perhaps the zigzagging trail of a fox’s dainty pawprints or the tiny triangles of bird feet.  Peace and beauty and the solitude of winter secrets…all these settle to earth with the swirling snow.

In fact, one of my favorite aspects of Estes Park, Colorado (my “heaven on earth,” as those of you who have followed my blog for any length of time are aware), is the amount of snow that falls there each winter.  In the Rockies, the snow begins flying in October, snowflakes and golden aspen leaves swirling together in the misty air.  And the snowstorms can continue well into May.  Altogether, the town receives 75 inches per year!  As a result, the inhabitants of Estes Park are able to enjoy incredible outdoor sports I’ll never see in Arkansas—skiing, snowshoeing, tobogganing.  And at Christmas, all the snow makes for an epically perfect holiday landscape.  

As I watch weather forecasts with useless hope and scowl at a drab landscape being pummeled by icy rain, it’s no wonder that I pine for the snow that blankets Estes Park every winter.  To my mind, it’s the perfect winter weather.  Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I met a woman in Colorado who held a completely opposite viewpoint.  

During a visit to Estes Park a couple of years ago, I was browsing a small store and simultaneously chatting with the cashier.  In the course of our conversation, I mentioned my dissatisfaction with Arkansas winters and how much I wished we experienced the snow that Colorado did.  I was shocked when the woman immediately and grimly informed me that I should be grateful for Arkansas’s climate; she loathed Colorado winters.  She insisted that they were harsh, bleak, and unforgiving.  The snow was excessive.  Driving was hazardous.  Outdoor recreation was limited.  And, she emphasized, even her childhood in gale-swept Kansas had not prepared her for the fury of the winds that roared down the mountainsides all winter long.  

And in this conversation, as I observed the look of dread that crossed this woman’s face at the very mention of winter, the irony struck me.  I found Arkansas winters uninspiring; she envisioned them as a welcome reprieve.  I longed for the snow and ice of Colorado; she hated such weather.  Each of us was dissatisfied with our own winter, certain that the other one was enjoying the best option.  

 Isn’t that just like us humans?  We always want exactly what we don’t have.  I dream of her snowdrifts and squalls; she thinks snow-free days in Arkansas sound like paradise.  The old proverb “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence” may be hackneyed, but it’s undeniably true.  Our society has a hard time with a simple virtue—contentment.   

“Contentment is natural wealth,” sagely observed Socrates.  Thousands of years later, Benjamin Franklin echoed this truth:  “Content makes poor men rich; discontent makes rich men poor.”  We read these quotations, and we nod in unfeigned agreement.  After all, we know the value of contentment.  We praise it in our pulpits and urge it to our children and add it to wall décor.  

Yet despite our lip service, we’re epically skilled at disregarding this simple concept.  We dwell in a culture that grasps with greedy fists.  “Mine” is usually among our very first words, and we never outgrow its shadow.  We turn all of life into a frantic race to have and do and be more than the runners we seek to outstrip.  We’re willing to run ourselves to death in pursuit of elusive happiness, and we’re sure our efforts can guarantee it for us.  

Yet look at us.  Competitive?  Yes.  Confused?  Certainly.  Combative?  Undoubtedly.  But content?  That’s a different story.  Somehow, the glittering light of what we don’t yet have is always enough to distract our gaze from the gentle glow of the candle of happiness right in front of our eyes.

Contentment is a hard trick to learn.  King Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, is an example of that.  He was used by God to pen many proverbs, among them these:  “A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot” (Proverbs 14:30 ESV) and “The fear of the Lord leads to life, that one may rest content, without visitation from harm” (Proverbs 19:23 BSB).  

Yet in his private life, even this most renowned philosopher couldn’t implement the advice of his own prudent words.  The king who wrote such glowing tributes to contentment never used the word in his daily life.  His reign was one of decadence—he lived in extravagant luxury, collected a massive harem (700 wives and 300 concubines), hosted lavish parties, and levied enormous taxes on his subjects to support his hedonistic lifestyle (1 Kings 3).  

But before we judge Solomon too harshly, let’s examine our own lives.  How often do we want what we don’t have?  Just as I fantasize about living in another climate, we constantly daydream about different circumstances, mentally superimposing ourselves on new jobs, new relationships, new vacations, new homes, new hobbies.  In a process that’s been greatly assisted by social media, we hold our lives side-by-side with those of others, and we always seem to come up lacking.  And if we’re not careful, dissatisfaction with our current state can burgeon into an unending urge that sends us roving restlessly, fruitlessly attempting to transform novelty into peace, looking for an elusive feeling of “enough” that never comes.  “Just as Death and Destruction are never satisfied, so human desire is never satisfied” (Proverbs 27:20 NLT). 

Discontent may be human, but it isn’t healthy.  So detrimental is it, in fact, that God included a warning against covetousness in the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20)!  At first glance, this might seem a bit excessive to us.  After all, does pining after someone’s else’s belongings or status truly deserve to rank with murder, idolatry, and adultery?  This question, however, reveals a lack of understanding about how serious discontent is.  In its most elemental form, it’s a permanent suspicion of God’s good plan—a constant question if He will truly provide us with all we need.  And although it may seem subtle, left unchecked, it lies at the root of every other sin listed in the commandments—the seed that sprouts a black and bitter fruit.  

The opposite of this, the oxygen to our soul, is contentment.  There’s a common misunderstanding that contentment is a state of mind, but in actuality, it is a skill.  It’s not a destination at which we arrive when all our circumstances are perfectly aligned.  Instead, it’s the pathway that leads our humble footsteps through the meadows of peace.  But in this sin-cursed world, when everything in us is always screaming for more, how do we learn to practice this skill?

The first step is to express gratitude for what we have right now.  Grace is born in a grateful heart.  Although I admit it rather grudgingly, there are reasons to be thankful Arkansas doesn’t receive Colorado weather—milder winters allow for a longer growing season, less time spent indoors, and less hazardous conditions.  And when I begin to be thankful for these things, I set the wheels of gratefulness in motion.  You see, we humans have a strange tendency to hold our gratitude hostage, as it were (I’ll be grateful when You perform my miracle, God!).  But as with most virtues, when we pour out our thankfulness—however small it may be—to God, we find that instead of lessening, it has only increased.  “Give thanks in all circumstances,” Paul instructed the Thessalonian believers, “for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you” (1 Thessalonians 5:18 ESV).  We are not told that we must thank God for everything, but in everything—finding a reason to rejoice in the midst of undesirable circumstances.  You see, God doesn’t urge us to practice gratitude for His sake, but for ours.  It’s not a homage He demands to inflate His ego; it’s an exercise of trust without which we could not survive.  

In addition to practicing gratitude, we acknowledge that God’s plan for us is continually unfolding.  We trust the wisdom of His designs over ours, and we accept His sovereignty over our lives.  From my perspective, constant snow would be a wonderful idea—but that doesn’t fit into Arkansas’s climate.  If that were to occur, the balance of our ecosystem would be upset, and native plants and wildlife would suffer.  Transplanting Colorado’s weather to Arkansas would destroy our ecology.  Could it be that sometimes, God bars events, people, and circumstances from our lives because they don’t fit—because they would create waves of destruction to the pattern of our lives that we could never imagine?  When discontent whispers to us the need to reach for more, we must commit ourselves to embracing God’s plan and walking within the parameters that He has placed around us.  Instead of rushing ahead, we pace ourselves to await the unfolding of His designs, certain that He knows best.  

Lastly, we balance future ambition with present joy.  It’s good and healthy to have goals for the future, but we can’t allow those goals to detract from today.  Perhaps one day, I’ll live in a mountainous area that each winter receives all the snow I could desire; but for right now, I dwell in Arkansas, and I can’t sacrifice the present beauty around me for future phantoms of bliss.  However, this doesn’t mean I can’t daydream about the future at all.  You see, contrary to popular belief, contentment does not equal stagnation; we don’t plop down on the trail of our lives and decide we’ve come far enough.  Nor is it equivalent to resignation, to shrugging our shoulders and deciding that since we can’t get what we like, we’ll just try to like what we were able to get.  Instead, contentment is like climbing a mountain.  When we pause along the journey, we look forward with eagerness to the peak we are climbing, but we also take a moment to look back at how far we’ve come and revel in the joy of the journey.

My friends, I’ve wished for snow more instances than I can count.  Our weather patterns in Arkansas have been a constant source of discontent for me.  But I’ve also felt the burn of dissatisfaction on a much larger scale, admiring someone else’s lifestyle or longing to exchange my circumstances for some that seem less painful.  But each time I feel that aching pull, I have a choice.  I can wallow in what I think God should give me—or I can open my eyes to the blessings that surround me.  Because you see, as believers, we truly have no reason for discontent; we already have all we need in the Presence of Jesus Christ.  Or as C. S. Lewis so aptly stated, “Look for Christ and you will find Him, and with Him everything else.”

Did you enjoy this post? Where have you found contentment in difficult circumstances? Let me know in the comments!