I’ve found that the sin in my life often works like an avalanche. At first, the sin seems inconsequential, like a dusting of snow on the ground. What harm could it do? Then, slowly, little by little, the snow builds up. The whole time, though, the snow is beautiful and quiet. It just rests there, and there is no obvious danger. I get complacent, used to the snow, and I forget that there was once dry ground, lush with vegetation, beneath that snow.
I begin to rationalize—the snow is good for skiing, it might even be helpful to protect the ground and the plants underneath. Of course, if I’m honest with myself, this makes no sense; I don’t ski, and the snow will suffocate whatever life it covers. But of course I’m not honest with myself, so the snow continues to pile up.
By now, I’m starting to get anxious. I recognize the possibility of danger, I’m very cautious not to make any loud noises, but eventually—inevitably—something will trigger the avalanche, and the consequences of all of that sin that I seemed to have gotten away with will all come rushing down the mountain at me, sweeping me away, tumbling uncontrollably, terrifying, painful. At the bottom, all I’m left with is regrets and what-ifs.
And sometimes, just when I thought the worst was over, another wave of snow surges at me, then another, and another, and I wonder when it’s going to stop. I never even knew there was this much snow—it had accumulated so slowly and so gently.
But I’ve also learned that whether I prevent the snow from starting in the first place, or whether I’m lying at the bottom of a mountain beneath a heap of snow of my own making, God will meet me where I am and help me dig out. I just have to take his hand.
Photo Credits: Avalanche by Richard Giddins, 7/11/07
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