Today’s dismal sky mirrors my mood. The cold clouds seem to notice my demeanor. A crystalline winter shower sifts down as they try to shake off their indifference – the closest thing to empathetic tears they can muster this time of year.
One of our former pastors died earlier this week. The funeral was today. He didn’t die of illness. Or old age. Or an accident. He died of depression. Of desperation. Of irrepressible despair.
Today my windshield is frosted white with feathery finesse. The grass and trees have been powder sugared, and the damp air has an unmistakable edge. Jack Frost passed through last night, leaving his frosty fingerprints on everything he touched. I’m not sure what kept him this year. Maybe he was vacationing in the Yukon! Whatever the case, he arrived later than usual.