Good which is done in this way, almost in spite of ourselves, almost shamefacedly and apologetically, is pure. All absolutely pure goodness completely eludes the will. Goodness is transcendent. God is Goodness.
It started with a few, hard flakes that looked more like ice pellets than anything else. Perhaps it was ice. But I didn't worry: it was good no matter what it was. I strolled back into the house and calmly told the girls, "You won't believe what's happening: it's snowing." Within a few minutes, the flakes were fat and heavy, a wet snow that accumulated quickly despite the relatively warm weather. L and I changed our afternoon swimming plans and got dressed as quickly as we could, both excited about the prospect of snow. By the time we made it outside, the flakes were enormous and plentiful, and I found myself watching both the snow and the Girl's excitement with the snow.
Living in South Carolina, snow is such an unpredictable goodness. It's so rare it can only be counted as a good: at most, it might disrupt traffic for a little while; it could close the school system down for a day or two; but even the most sour, pessimist in the Upstate must smile a bit to see the occasional snow.
Yet it's so unpredictable. We can literally go for years without any snow, apparently. Every winter, we wonder: will there be snow this winter> Well, at least I wonder, K wonders, the Girl wonders.
I stood there today, though, marveling at the difference between our Upstate winter reality and that of southern Poland. Here, the question is whether nor not it will snow; there, the questions are when the first snow will come, how long it will last, and if it will melt completely before the next snow falls. There, the first snow fall is just the promise of more, just a whisper of what's to come. Here, it's the promise, the whisper, and the whole story.
Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to live in such a place with my family. Perhaps with that much snow, the Girl would come to take it for granted. Is that even possible? Can a child ever grow tired of making snowballs, of digging snow forts, of sledding?
And what of the good, the transcendent good that eludes the will? Perhaps sometimes that good comes from an unexpected change in the weather, a sprinkling of white in an otherwise gray afternoon.
I go to Mass tonight alone because K has already been in an effort to keep our sick son in the house as much as possible. The entrance processional is a rousing hymn complete with drum accompaniment. The tell-tale “tat-tat-tat” of the high-hat cymbal gives it away before the full beat begins, and I realize what has happened: I’ve inadvertently come to a youth Mass. Sure enough, when the lector approaches, he’s wearing jeans and a tee-shirt. The rat-tat-tat of drums continues at times when it seems it really shouldn’t, like the Sanctus and the Agnus Dei. During the consecration of the host, I begin to wonder if the altar boy will ring the altar bell: “Perhaps the percussionist will give three good crashes on the cymbal” I think. Mercifully, that doesn’t happen, but by then, it’s too late. Despite my best efforts to focus on why I’m at Mass, I’m irritated and feeling that I’m almost physically having to resist the urge to march over to the drummer, rip the drumsticks out of her hands, and walk back to my seat. I feel I’m at some Benny Hinn camp meeting rather than Catholic Mass, and that eats at me.
