It was around noon Jan. 3 when

I finally ventured out of the house.

My cozy fire had won out for

a day and half over taking a walk in five to seven inches of snow, depending

on where I would step. But finally I had found my sense of adventure and

out the back door I went.

I walked slowly, hugging the

edge of the yard and the fields, not wanting to mar nature's perfect palette.

Feeling more and more like an intruder with every step, I meandered around

to the back field and climbed up into one of Daniel's deer hunting stands

to quietly observe the changed landscape.

I let myself try to take in

the beauty before me. I wished for a camera. I had not brought one with

me. I had my binoculars, but couldn't bring myself to use them because

of the limited field of vision they offered. I wanted to drink in all

of it.

The sound of the soft wind

in the trees was more beautiful than any musical performance I have ever

heard. An occasional thump of snow falling below me sounded like a distant

drum demanding a part in the performance. Time almost stood still.

After what was probably about

45 minutes I climbed down and continued to walk. At one point I thought

I'd try to build a snowman. I lasted about 15 minutes and had what looked

more like a pyramid, I suppose, than Frosty or one of his playmates. Oh

well, I knew when I started my excursion that I could not improve on what

lay before me.

It was shortly after I had

given up on my snowman and started walking again that I began to notice

what looked like the tiniest diamonds imaginable on the velvety white

ground around me. They sparkled in the sunlight like nothing I had ever

seen before. When I bent down to examine this newfound treasure, I saw

that they were snowflakes.

I had never seen a snowflake

before. Not really. I had never really looked at one like I found myself

doing at that moment. I no longer wanted my camera and the binoculars

were of no use at all; at that point, I longed for a magnifying glass.

I lost track of time I as a gingerly moved from one spot to another to

gaze at the snowflakes. So tiny. So perfect. So awe-inspiring.

I have drawn snowflakes before.

I cut out snowflakes in elementary school art class. I have admired many

a lace or paper doily and wondered at their similarity to snowflakes,

as I thought I knew a snowflake to be. ...

I have seen pictures of snowflakes,

freehand drawings, paintings, computer renditions in more books, magazines

and newspapers than I could begin to name. And repeatedly, through all

my exposure, I had been told and had read that each snowflake is unique.

Amazing, I had thought.

That was before I looked closely

at my first snowflake, and then my second and ... suddenly, amazing didn't

touch it. As I knelt on my knees in the snow only inches from these majestic

little works of art I thought, "If I ever doubted there was a God,

a Creator, a Mastermind behind the universe, all doubt has to go now."

Then I suddenly felt small

and very exposed. There I was. Just God and me and all those snowflakes.

"IF I had ever doubted ..." He alone knows how much I doubt,

how many questions I have asked, how brazen I can be at times. Oh, yeah,

I have wondered. Wondered is what I like to say. And doubted. Yep, I've

done my share of that, too.

But for a few minutes sometime

between 11 a.m. and 2:30 p.m. on Jan. 3, 2002, I had no doubts. Truly

my sense of wonder ruled and my vision of God's handiwork left no room

for unbelief.

"For since the creation

of the world his invisible attributes are clearly seen, being understood

year hold for us all a new sense of wonder, a renewed and more reverent

recognition of the Creator, and a brand new, much deeper appreciation

for all his creation.

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