Insult the art, insult the artist

I love Michigan weather.

I love the seasons here. The wild unpredictability of each day.

Today is Friday, April 8. The Detroit Tigers open their home baseball season. Easter was almost two weeks ago. Flowers are popping up through the ground. I’ve been wearing pink again.

And an inch of snow covers the rooftops as I look out the front window.

The weather report predicts up to three inches of snow today.

I’m not bracing for the wintry blast. I’m bracing for the complaining and whining I’m sure to hear all day.

People in Michigan (of all places) seem to believe the weather is supposed to respond to their schedules and their whims as if they’re clicking the TV remote control.

It’s like God is a short-order cook.

“Hey, God! It’s Tigers Opening Day. What the hell is this snow? I ordered seventy and sunshine. I want my money back.”

Oh, you paid for today? You paid for the air and the sun and the wind? You paid for the freedom to move about the land? You paid for the involuntary function of your brain and heart and lungs to have a life? You paid to be in this world, to enjoy all the privileges and wonders of just being here?

Perhaps if you don’t like weather that reminds you that God is an artist, creative, unpredictable, and wild–beyond your caprice and control–you could always move to Arizona. Or the moon. Or a cemetery plot.

Insult the art, insult the artist.

Perhaps instead of insisting that God do things by our schedules, we’d be happier if we learn to enjoy the surprises and thrills of living with a God who makes snow on April 8.