On my parent's last day in Amman, the clouds swirled down three inches of snow and sleet. After an initial few hours of the flakes melting into the earth, trees, stone balconies, the fluff began to accumulate. First, on the ledges of our wrap around marble patio, then onto the asphalt streets, hedge of evergreen lining the front of our apartment.
We sat in our warm kitchen, sipping tea and listening to the silence of falling snow, the absence of cars and trucks making background noise to our apartment living. Plans of sightseeing at the Citadel and roman ruins in Amman were laid aside for reading books, watching movies and playing games.
The kids tramped outside with Grandpa, winter coats zipped up to chins, donning new hats knitted by Grammi and Christmas-gifted waterproof gloves. Squeals of pure joy, uplifted hands and faces upturned to lick up the cold dots of frozen water. Then pushing, pushing the sticky, cold stuff into balls and a snowball fight ensues. I watch and keep in my heart the laughter between my father and his grandchildren as they bend down, throw, turn to duck and throw again.
Our city, blanketed in a layer of white, became a winter wonderland. It was not the day or the week we expected, with cloud layers pouring down heaven-sent bowls of rain, hail, sleet and snow. Yet everyone we meet here responds the same to the weather- Hum dal Allah! - Praise God! We know how much this country needs rain, how much it needs to be washed clean.
soli deo gloria