Bitter Cold Arctic Invasion
Thank you for making sure that Expat received job offers from universities south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Please, God, let him sign with a school far, far removed from the Arctic Circle—a place with no snow removal budget, perhaps, where the phrase Bitter Arctic Cold Invasion would never be uttered on the nightly news. We do not need the sight of ice fishermen on Monona Bay to be happy. We do not have to walk on water in its solid state. We do not have to have White Christmases, or White Anything, for that matter. We don't ski or snowshoe; shoveling is not my favorite pastime.
Most Fair and Merciful God, if you see fit to place us in a Warmer, Friendlier Climate, I promise to strap on my toolbelt and once again take up my hammer and my speed square and the workplace-provided nail gun and volunteer at least twice a month at the local Habitat for Humanities site. I would even attempt roofing, despite my fear of gradual inclines 20 feet off the ground, and I would not get upset this time should the site manager accidentally fell a tree on top of my boombox. I would not complain about the Summer Monsoon Season and I would remember to smile when an Isolated Thunderstorm occurred in my yard instead of my neighbor's. I would plant Your favorite flowers—I would figure out what Your favorite flowers are—and I would tend them with great care. Better still, I would voluntarily plant flowers in other people's flower beds and tend them with great care, thus sharing my gardening prowess, given by You, that I might better my own little corner of the world.
Most of all, God, I would stop cursing the snow and ice and sleet and cease harboring ill will toward the meteorologists who coin phrases like Arctic Invasion. I would instead applaud their creativity; most people think of Invasions as things that only involve aliens from outer space or ground troops or foreign plant species. Those Weather Channel meteorologists are thinking outside the proverbial box. The should be congratulated. Instead, I am too cold—my Heart is Too Cold—to really notice.
I know that this is the part where I'm supposed to say something about not my will but Yours, but God, I'm trying to be realistic. Please. Hear my cry. Hear my call. Hear my chattering teeth. Have Mercy upon me and my poor, poor hypothermic soul. Move me, Lord! To a home in the sub tropics! Or at least see fit to send me a floor-length down parka and several more pairs of Cuddl Duds.
Thank you, God, for today and all days—especially those balmy ones in the mid- to upper-60s.
Yours even unto negative 30 (but hoping for something above freezing),
PS: If You were trying to make all those “when Hell freezes over” promises come true for folks, You might want to reconsider. It's just a turn of phrase, you know—something we say down here as a bit of a joke. Sorry if You knew that one already, just trying to save You from a little Godly Embarrassment.