By Nathan J. Barnes
I awoke yesterday morning to a beautiful blanket of snow in my front yard. A soft, continuous snowfall delighted me for the rest of the day. Even after arriving home from a long day at work, there were no footprints, bicycle tracks, or other unsightly disturbances such as presents from local strays or snow angels from the neighbor’s kids.
This doesn’t happen very often in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. It certainly doesn’t happen often in Lubbock, Texas, where I grew up. I can count on one hand the number of times that it snowed enough to build a respectable snowman. Even then, my brother and I had to take our wagon out and steal snow from other yards.
Here in paradise, where we have mild winters, it doesn’t take much to close down roads and let the kids out of school for a snow day. Last night, the roads were covered with a filthy slush that will be ice today. Fort Worth doesn’t have enough resources to lay down the proper amount of salt and sand to make the streets reasonably safe. Furthermore, Texans can’t drive in the rain, let alone on ice. My revered old two-wheel-drive truck will be useless today, so when with fear and trembling I venture to work this morning, I’ll be looking for someone to blame for this icy curse.
Usually, in times like this, when nature reveals its mean streak, we can look to prophets like Pat Robertson who are happy to explain to us whose sinful past has brought down the wrath of God. But since the Rev. Robertson and other infallible minds have not offered an explanation for these dreadful events here in the buckle of the Bible belt, someone must step forward with a penetrating opinion.
Here’s mine:
Early in the 18th century, citizens of what would later become Texas made a pact with Santa Maria del Fuego. If ever a citizen or resident of Texas said anything that could be interpreted as a negative comment about the motherland, they were still to be welcomed by the faithful and loved into changing their minds about God’s chosen nation. Over time, however, this pact slipped into oblivion.
Then news came from London concerning the Dixie Chicks. The Chicks said something that infuriated Texans, and the ensuing protests and mayhem eventually drove them out of the state. Even the Baptist witness across the country could not inspire the Chicks and Texans to reconcile.
Now, I fear this 300-year-old pact has come not only to haunt my beloved Texas but the rest of the United States in the form of the record snowstorms that have wreaked havoc from Dallas to D.C. Until the Chicks are welcome again in Texas, and Baptists across the country unite in leading this effort of non-judgmental Christian love, we’ll continue to see snowstorms and the like.
But I have also witnessed a sign of hope. I heard that the Chicks have performed with the undisputedly authentic Texan — that voice of country music and unifier of all things good — Willie Nelson. No one ever picketed on the sidewalk outside Willie’s house or called radio stations in protest when his songs were played.
Because I myself saw Willie and the Chicks together on YouTube, I interpreted it as a divine message to forgive past transgression and to welcome the Chicks back onto my playlist. If all Christians will do the same, all will be well, and spring will come.