Stone Against Storm
The snow started late morning. About 11AM or so.
Before work it was droplets, maybe a flake or two, here and there.
After work it was it was a full white blanket.
Minnesota in February doesn’t ask for permission.
The roads were glazed in ice and the wind moved sideways.
Streetlights glowed like halos.
Everything felt amplified.
Cop car after cop car.
Firetruck after firetruck.
For crash after crash.
He could’ve stayed home.
Most people probably did.
But it was Ash Wednesday.
The first day of Lent.
The first mark on the forehead.
The first quiet declaration:
Remember that you are dust.
He gripped the wheel tighter as the car slid slightly at an intersection.
Not panic, just awareness.
The kind of awareness you get when you know you’re responsible for your own direction.
His heater hummed.
Kanye West whispered faintly in the background.
Outside, this world look erased.
No lines on the road, no clear lanes, just instict and slow intention.
It felt symbolic in a way.
The snowstorm wasn’t an obstacle. It was a filter.
Every red light luminous in the storm.
Every brake press required patience.
Every turn had to be deliberate.
No sudden moves.
No ego.
Just steady hands and eyes forward.
When he finally pulled into the Cathedral of Saint Pauls parking lot,
the snow had swallowed half the cars.
But the building rose through the white haze like something ancient and unmoved.
Stone against Storm. Stone always wins.
He turned off his engine.
Sat in silence.
The flakes now seemed softer.
He stepped out and the wind hit his face.
Cold.
Sharp.
A punch in the face.
Yet purifying.
His black Doc Marten boots sinking into the fresh powder,
he walked toward the doors with that strange mix of smallness and purpose.
Inside, there was warmth, candles.
Kneelers worn throughout generations.
Later, when the Archbishop pressed ash into his forehead,
the words landed heavier than the snow outside.
Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
The storm continued to rage outside.
But inside these granite stones, something settled.
He had driven through whiteout conditions not because it was convenient,
but because something in him refused to drift.
The roads were unclear.
The season ahead would be hard.
But he showed up as himself.
And for God, that’s all that matters.
