The cold wind swirls snowflakes, freshly fallen in their incalculable number and uniqueness. No two the same, though they are billions. And yet, they form a single mass of beauty, radiant drifts rolling in the open field, speaking softly in frosty breath the glory of God.
            I stand at the door of the convent chapel and stomp my boots on the welcome mat inside. A handful of flakes follow me in, then disappear, their final praises a flurry of graceful glory in the house of their Maker.  
            The white alb falls freely over my shoulders and down to my feet. Outside the sacristy door I hear the scuff of shoes on a wooden floor, the brushing of snow from worn leather. The shush, the scrape, the light-weight steps of the sisters sound as rhythmic and graceful as a wedding waltz; as holy and lithe as David’s dance before the Ark.
            Soon, their nimble foot-falls approach the confessional where I wait with a heart that echoes the conviction of their steps as they approach the ante-chamber of the Bridegroom prior to the wedding banquet, here to drink from the fountain of crimson mercy. Their sorrow, their joy, their love will leave this sophomore priest speechless, humbled and honored.
            I process to the altar and kiss it, the snow-capped Mountain of All blessing. When I lift my eyes, I behold a valley of veiled snowflakes, each-loved and each-loving, raising their voices in harmonized praise, glorious and free and dazzling as a flurry dancing amid wintery pines.