The Roof Rake: A Reflection on Christmas

The forecasters got it wrong when they said it wasn’t supposed to begin snowing until 7 this morning, because when I got up at 5 to use the bathroom and stoke the fire, the world was already one fluffy marshmallow. I drank good coffee while I made sure the fire blazed to its most efficient 500 degrees, and then I closed the air control. Amanda munched on grapefruit, Thomas insisted on going out into the garage, and the DVD player registered “The Nativity Story” in preparation for our morning movie.

I think it’s a fair estimation to say that what I know of the nativity story, as its presented in the Bible, is that of Mary giving birth to baby Jesus, the son of God, somewhere in Bethlehem, somewhere in a manger. Shepards watching over their flocks made haste to visit the new Christ king, and three wise men, inspired by the positioning of the stars, voyaged to the blessed manger to honor this new king. The focus, obviously, is on Jesus—as it should be. But what of Mary . . .and Joseph?

The film was uncomfortable to watch, not for its content (which was beautiful to say the least) but for the way in which it portrayed the adversity faced by Mary and Joseph—two recently married young people engulfed in a controversy stemming from an unrequited arranged marriage, a one year hiatus away from her husband by Mary, and the knowledge that Mary, although forbidden by Jewish law to procreate with her new husband for a year, somehow became “with child” by some sort of “immaculate conception” as she carried the son of God. How many people in the village bought THAT?

Joseph was the epitome of a provider, both standing by and honoring his new wife, despite second guessing her fidelity, as well as arranging the difficulty of a 100 mile journey back to Bethlehem to prepare for Caesar Augustus’ census of all men. Through deserts and craggly mountain tops, to river crossings and cold nights, Joseph provided for his wife and unborn child; he gave up his food for the good of both Mary and the donkey carrying her. A model of a man to behold.

Back to my own, albeit less severe “trial” of the day: the blizzard. I am in NO WAY comparing myself to Joseph, because I don’t think I could ever be one tenth of the man he is, however, he did inspire me to get outside and shovel the driveway. So I’ve got that going for me . . . .

I would say that owning my own home is the most scarily beautiful thing I’ve encountered in my life (remember, I’m still not “technically” a father). Dana told me yesterday that he’d be over to snow blow for us after the storm subsided, but something there was that made me want to shovel. I was happy in the groaning of my back and the stretching of my hamstrings as I, sometimes hopelessly against a raging Arctic wind, threw wet, clumpy snow onto the sides of the driveway. I didn’t mind the pain, if you will, because I felt blessed to be able to feel it the first place; it was the joyous pain of taking care of my own home. And my own family. To feel like you are providing for something greater than yourself is a feeling that, I think, goes beautifully with the Christmas season in which I find myself. I’m a selfish individual—I realize this—but the earnestness to want to be better is a gift in itself.

Enter the roof rake.

Our home is a unique blend of architecture, as far as traditional capes go, mostly for its “A-Frame” dormer on the west side of the building. Creating a beautiful bedroom with angled walls, nooks, and crannies, it also is laden with valleys on the outside that provide a cozy home for settling snow to sleep, freeze, and morph into eventual icicles. A roof rake usually can take care of this problem—if you are quick enough to remove the snow before it compresses into ice.

We live in such a petty world of petty fights and petty disagreements stemming from unnecessary power struggles infused by an ability to always be “right.” How curious that a thirty four dollar roof rake from the “big box orange store” would teach me this. Our roof rake is a blue plastic blade connected to about ten feet of aluminum extension pipes; it teeters and wobbles as you try to position it at just the correct angle on the roof. Snow will collect in roof valleys, melt, freeze, and then melt again. It builds up thicker and thicker with each cold day its ignored and left alone. The ice is easy to dismiss, but, eventually, it will melt again, perhaps this time permeating its way under what we think to be safe flashing, shingles, and siding.

How much like our lives.

I realize how I do this—how we all do this. Its tough to do the right thing, get out there in the world, brave the cold, and confront these petty problems. From apathy and ignorance, we let these things settle, collect, compound. They become frozen feelings, damaged relationships, and half-assed dreams. How pathetic am I—are we—to let this happen.

As I work to clear the snow bank left by the Fairfield public works plow, I stop to rest on the handle of my snow shovel. A gray Chevy carrying its own plow crawls down the street, stops in front of the driveway, backs up slowly, and plows half of the bank into the side of our yard. Just like that. I don’t know this man—I don’t even recognize the truck. But he tips his cap to me as I yell out my great thanks for his help. A simple 30 second job for him, but one that brings me a great respite. I trounce over to the front of the house to grab the roof rake, and I begin to position it precariously up into the valley of the A-Frame. Wind, momentum, and perhaps a little guidance from God himself drive the fine crystals of snow right into my face as I scrape and pull snow down from the rooftop. Immediately, it blushes my face, hardens my nostrils, and encapsulates my eyelashes with ice that makes it hard to keep my eyes open. I am taking care of my home and my family, and I am preventing, perhaps, a greater damage from occurring. It reminds me of Joseph and the pain he endured caring for his Mary. It reminds me of the challenge to be responsible, even in perilous circumstances. It reminds me of the pain I feel from people, and the pain I’ve caused to others. And, most of all, it reminds me that, in fact, there is hope . . .in the most hopeful season of them all.

Merry Christmas.