Speaking of the weather
02/02/25 01:33
A friend reposted a meme of a fictional weather alert on social media yesterday. I don’t repost items on social media, but I’ve shown it to several people with a smile.
SNOW ALERT
Expecting:
Zero (0) to 85 inches of snow.
Starting:
Saturday or Sunday or Monday maybe, but probably not happening at all.
Recommendations:
Stock up on all necessitates immediately and prepare for a snowpocalpyse or a beautiful weekend, either is possible.
Even in our fifth winter since moving to the Pacific Northwest, we continue to be surprised by the mild weather. We have tulips and hyacinths a couple of inches out of the ground. We have one pansy from last year that continues to bloom. It contrasts with our years in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Not only is this a place where it doesn’t snow very often, but it is also a place where few people know how to drive on slippery roads. Road conditions have not been bad enough to require chains on vehicles since we moved here. We don’t need all-wheel or four-wheel drive vehicles, though we haven’t traded since we moved, so we have very capable cars.
The talk of the weather makes me think of two people who were instrumental in my life and my way of thinking. One was my father-in-law, who frequently said, “It is a good thing we have weather. It gives us something to talk about.” He grew up on a dryland farm in North Dakota and came to age during the Great Depression. He understood how weather was a critical factor in human health and survival. It wasn’t just the weather that he understood. He also understood people. The simple question, “How about that weather?” was an entrance into another person’s life for him. He could tell by their responses whether they were new to the area or old-timers, whether they worked outdoors or spent their time behind a desk. A conversation about the weather might lead to discussing skiing, golf, fishing, farming, or ranching. It was a way to know and be known.
The other profoundly influential person that comes to mind is my graduate school teacher and mentor, Ross Snyder. I remember him saying, “I don’t have time to talk about the weather. I’m seventy-four years old. I don’t have time for trivia.” He wanted to get to depth in conversation and relationship as quickly as possible. He wanted to talk about significant and vital topics. He handed us reading and writing assignments at a rate that presented a big challenge for me, and I was a big reader and a pretty good writer before I met him. One of the conversations over coffee after his class was about how overwhelmed students felt. Despite his intensity, Ross was very good at meeting and getting to know new people. Every year, he welcomed a new cohort to the seminary. He taught a three-month intensive that was the first class all students had to take. The seminary had international connections. Our first intensive included students from the US, Australia, South Africa, Indonesia, and other countries. Ross kept track of each and worked hard to help each integrate into the seminary's culture.
I am deeply grateful to both men and the many lessons they taught me. I emerged from theological seminary with the education and vocabulary to hold my own in conversation with theologians and biblical scholars. I was prepared to deliver sermons that wrestled with the meaning of life and death. My education had given me the resources to sit with those who were grieving and plan funerals for their loved ones. It helped me participate in congregations of people facing difficult questions about life and death. I also was ready to enter life in small congregations in small towns. I went out to farms and was at home meeting farmers outdoors. I knew how to climb into the cab of a combine without slowing the harvest. I could walk into a bar full of sheep and know how to behave. I could sit at the table in the city cafe and converse with the locals who stopped by. I had plenty of seminary classmates who graduated from seminary with excellent educational backgrounds but who lacked practical skills and were challenged by the task of fitting into the communities where they were called to serve. Like the locals in our small town, I could tell within a few conversations who would find it easy to live in our town and who would be looking to move within a few months of arrival.
Now that I am the age that my mentors and guides were, I understand that connection with others is not a matter of the conversation topic. When I get to church today, I suspect there will be conversations about the weather, politics, and football. One of the lessons I learned early in my career was to know at least which teams are in the Super Bowl. It doesn’t hurt to know who is headlining the halftime show, where the game will be held, and which teams were eliminated during the playoffs. Sports are a topic of conversation that allows the expression of passion without the fear of offending someone. I don’t need to hide that I’m not much of a sports fan. I just need to be aware of the culture enough to engage in conversation. More often than not, conversations about topics that are unimportant to me lead to other discussions. Once connection and trust are established, opportunities arise to speak of what is most important.
My mentors and many others have understood that we are connected by conversation about life's big and little things. We share the weather, times of grief and loss, stories from books and movies, and the sacred stories of our people.
How about those Chiefs? How can we honor the memory of those who died in tragic aircraft accidents this week? How do we develop less consumptive and more sustainable lifestyles? How do we plan for the death of loved ones? How about the weather? They are all important questions.
SNOW ALERT
Expecting:
Zero (0) to 85 inches of snow.
Starting:
Saturday or Sunday or Monday maybe, but probably not happening at all.
Recommendations:
Stock up on all necessitates immediately and prepare for a snowpocalpyse or a beautiful weekend, either is possible.
Even in our fifth winter since moving to the Pacific Northwest, we continue to be surprised by the mild weather. We have tulips and hyacinths a couple of inches out of the ground. We have one pansy from last year that continues to bloom. It contrasts with our years in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Not only is this a place where it doesn’t snow very often, but it is also a place where few people know how to drive on slippery roads. Road conditions have not been bad enough to require chains on vehicles since we moved here. We don’t need all-wheel or four-wheel drive vehicles, though we haven’t traded since we moved, so we have very capable cars.
The talk of the weather makes me think of two people who were instrumental in my life and my way of thinking. One was my father-in-law, who frequently said, “It is a good thing we have weather. It gives us something to talk about.” He grew up on a dryland farm in North Dakota and came to age during the Great Depression. He understood how weather was a critical factor in human health and survival. It wasn’t just the weather that he understood. He also understood people. The simple question, “How about that weather?” was an entrance into another person’s life for him. He could tell by their responses whether they were new to the area or old-timers, whether they worked outdoors or spent their time behind a desk. A conversation about the weather might lead to discussing skiing, golf, fishing, farming, or ranching. It was a way to know and be known.
The other profoundly influential person that comes to mind is my graduate school teacher and mentor, Ross Snyder. I remember him saying, “I don’t have time to talk about the weather. I’m seventy-four years old. I don’t have time for trivia.” He wanted to get to depth in conversation and relationship as quickly as possible. He wanted to talk about significant and vital topics. He handed us reading and writing assignments at a rate that presented a big challenge for me, and I was a big reader and a pretty good writer before I met him. One of the conversations over coffee after his class was about how overwhelmed students felt. Despite his intensity, Ross was very good at meeting and getting to know new people. Every year, he welcomed a new cohort to the seminary. He taught a three-month intensive that was the first class all students had to take. The seminary had international connections. Our first intensive included students from the US, Australia, South Africa, Indonesia, and other countries. Ross kept track of each and worked hard to help each integrate into the seminary's culture.
I am deeply grateful to both men and the many lessons they taught me. I emerged from theological seminary with the education and vocabulary to hold my own in conversation with theologians and biblical scholars. I was prepared to deliver sermons that wrestled with the meaning of life and death. My education had given me the resources to sit with those who were grieving and plan funerals for their loved ones. It helped me participate in congregations of people facing difficult questions about life and death. I also was ready to enter life in small congregations in small towns. I went out to farms and was at home meeting farmers outdoors. I knew how to climb into the cab of a combine without slowing the harvest. I could walk into a bar full of sheep and know how to behave. I could sit at the table in the city cafe and converse with the locals who stopped by. I had plenty of seminary classmates who graduated from seminary with excellent educational backgrounds but who lacked practical skills and were challenged by the task of fitting into the communities where they were called to serve. Like the locals in our small town, I could tell within a few conversations who would find it easy to live in our town and who would be looking to move within a few months of arrival.
Now that I am the age that my mentors and guides were, I understand that connection with others is not a matter of the conversation topic. When I get to church today, I suspect there will be conversations about the weather, politics, and football. One of the lessons I learned early in my career was to know at least which teams are in the Super Bowl. It doesn’t hurt to know who is headlining the halftime show, where the game will be held, and which teams were eliminated during the playoffs. Sports are a topic of conversation that allows the expression of passion without the fear of offending someone. I don’t need to hide that I’m not much of a sports fan. I just need to be aware of the culture enough to engage in conversation. More often than not, conversations about topics that are unimportant to me lead to other discussions. Once connection and trust are established, opportunities arise to speak of what is most important.
My mentors and many others have understood that we are connected by conversation about life's big and little things. We share the weather, times of grief and loss, stories from books and movies, and the sacred stories of our people.
How about those Chiefs? How can we honor the memory of those who died in tragic aircraft accidents this week? How do we develop less consumptive and more sustainable lifestyles? How do we plan for the death of loved ones? How about the weather? They are all important questions.
