Never

Oh No, You never let go,

                                                                                   Matthew Redman

Another snow day, another wind chill advisory, in a winter that seems destined to cling tightly to the shivering earth for weeks to come. I set out wrapped in scarf and hood and my heavy left-over Alaska coat that seems to inspire as much entertainment as envy.  

I don't care. It's warm. It lets me out of the house and into the crisp fresh air and billowing fluff.  The streets are scraped to damp asphalt now, but the sidewalks are still barely distinguishable from the buried yards they huddle against. I stay on the deserted road until I reach the park then plunge through the drifts to the trail. 

It's marked already, with the runners of a single sled and the darting prints of a small animal. The trees are frosted in white as expected, stark and bare against the steel gray clouded sky and the silent air.

Except for one. At the top of the hill, where the children play, it stands alone. Tired, brown, crisp-wilted leaves clutch its branches in defiant pride. Against all storms and wind and cold, they won't give up, they won't let go.  

It's cold now, even through my heavy coat.  The winds are picking up and the temperature dropping.  I head back home, Matthew Redman floating through my mind on the icy walk and a down slope fall. Through storm and trial and barren branches, God will never let go.