As I dug out from the winter storm that enveloped the upper Midwest recently, occasionally hearing the groaning of my neighbors about their task, I thought about numerous people on the other side of the world who everyday have to deal with far more dire threats to their well being, things like war, terrorism, and natural disasters for which they do not always have adequate municipal response.  In this light, I had little about which to complain.
     But many of us complain anyway.  Many of us lament the meteorological challenges that ripple through our lives, wondering why we live in a part of the world in which we are subject to such things, thinking that we would rather be in a different place, at least for a seasons.  We'd rather not have to deal with them.
     Not that I necessarily love shoveling snow (although I do not really mind), but I do love that, in some parts of the world, we see seasonal change.  We see nature's rhythms, we see its patterns, we see the structures that order and govern the planet.  We see the core of what makes the world go, see a window into the heart of those things that enable us to live.  We see the wisdom of God.
     Not to say that we would not see these things if we did not experience the seasons, just that facing the raw expressions of nature's might allows us to step back and realize anew how fortunate we are to know this universe.
     And, if we like, the God who made it.