Sunday, December 18, 9:30 PM. Amy.

It was snowing when we woke this morning, beautiful thick flakes drifting lazily from the sky. It fell for hours, laying a perfect blanket of white everywhere we could see. It comes so rarely in Texas and almost never before Christmas.

“Did the Almanac predict this, Brewer?” I teased.

“‘Course it did,” he said, smiling big. “When’s it ever wrong?”

I’m not a big fan of snow, but the kids were overjoyed. They spent all day out in it, romping with the dogs, having snowball fights, building snowmen, making snow ice cream. Brewer and I joined in as much as we could stand. The kids don’t feel the cold so much.

The sun peeked out beneath the clouds as it was setting and bathed the fields in golden light. The air had been still, but now a breeze stirred. Brewer and I stood on the front porch, watching the kids drag each other on a makeshift sled. The sun continued to set. It was bitter cold. The night loomed.

Suddenly the wind picked up. The kids had somehow changed into dark gray shapes against black. The cold and dark was like a predator closing in from the fringe of our sheltered home. I felt a bolt of fear and called for them to come in.

To me, there’s always been something threatening about the winter. The long, eager darkness and the heartless chill both whisper to me of danger and indifference. I see the wet, skeletal trees and know that winter has murdered them. If it gets us alone, exposed, away from home, it will murder us too. With the lights on and the fire blazing we keep the dark and chill at bay, right outside the walls. But if they die—and they can so easily die—the winter would rush in through windows and cracks, merciless and killing.

I’m not really afraid. We have gas. We have firewood. We’re a long way from freezing to death. But what if a fire drove us out of the house, or a storm blew it over? What if one of us got caught out in a blizzard far from the lights of home?

I explained all this to Brewer. He chuckled, put his arm around me and said I worry too much. “To me,” he said, “the winter is a gift.” He delights in it, looks forward to it all year. It represents freedom from the sweat and heat of summer. It’s a time to put on comfortable clothes and cozy up with the ones he loves. It draws us inward, into togetherness. It offers long hours with nothing to do but to relax and visit and read and play. “I love a fire in the fireplace more than anything,” he said. “I don’t see a threat. I see a threat rebuffed.” He may not have said “rebuffed.” He may have said “neutralized.”

For him it’s a time for feasting, with all the best food and all the best holidays. “I don’t think of it as a time of darkness, but of light and decoration. And you’ve decorated our house beautifully.” He pointed to the wreath on the front door, then kissed me on the forehead.

Typical Brewer.

When all the rest of us are dead and gone, killed by frost and disease and childbirth, Brewer will still be here, sitting by the fire, rubbing his hands together, gleefully trusting that God is looking out for us, that an even better life is on the way.