Yesterday I woke to a world remade. Snow had come in the night—unhurried, unannounced—laying its white blessing on everything that would hold it. The garden stood like a congregation of old saints, each dried stalk cupping a soft mound of light, as if grace had weight to it, as if grace preferred the withered things.

I brushed off the car and began the slow glide down the road, the sky still feeding the earth with plump flakes. But the roads were not ready for anyone’s plans, least of all mine, so I turned for home. The driveway waited—steep, familiar, a small mountain I climb every day without giving it a second thought. But yesterday it had opinions. The tires spun, the engine strained, and halfway up, the car simply surrendered.

I tried again. Same story.
Again—no progress, just the quiet lesson that the hill always gets the last word.

So I got out. Shovel in hand, breath rising in little clouds, I cleared what I could. One scrape at a time, the path opened—not completely, but enough to feel like effort mattered. Enough to remind me that doing something is not the same as controlling the outcome.

When I tried again, I made it no farther.

And the truth is, I could feel the old, familiar fears—the ones that ride just beneath the ribcage—beginning their slow climb upward. Not about the driveway, of course. About the other things I cannot name yet, the things that send prayers through the body before they ever reach the lips.

On the last attempt, I whispered a few words toward God—small words, tired words—and eased the wheel into the turn. The car slid slightly, caught a fresh angle I hadn’t intended, and suddenly I was rising, cresting the top as if the hill had softened its heart.

I keep thinking about that—how often I meet the hard incline of a day with the same familiar approach, the same inner grip, the same practiced fear. How often I forget that sometimes the way forward comes only when something shifts beneath me—a new angle, a gentler slant, a willingness to let go of the rut I’ve been steering toward out of habit.

A friend told me not long ago that fear and doubt can walk beside me if they must, but they do not get to steer.

And maybe this is what she meant:
that even on whiteout days, there is always some unexpected opening—
a slight turn of the wheel,
a softened patch of snow,
a grace-shaped path I did not plan,
lifting me toward home.