The Snowman

By Brenton Sconce

It was our first real snowfall of the year. It wasn’t anything record breaking, maybe three to four inches, but it was enough to transform the yard from the frozen brown we had gotten used to into a winter wonderland. It had the nostalgia of childhood Christmas wonder.

Everything felt just a little bit softer.

From the moment they woke up and peeked through the window to the outside, all the boys wanted was to go out and play. Breakfast disappeared, coats half-zipped, boots on the wrong feet, and mismatched mittens made up our attire. The mission was clear: make a fort, throw snowballs, and of course, build a snowman.

The youngest, who is 3, lasted about fifteen minutes. I think he forgot that snow was cold. With stinging fingers and bright pink cheeks, he was quickly back inside with mom. It made sense to me.

My six-year-old, however, seemed made for this. Boots packed with snow, gloves so soaked they were a different color, snow clinging to his Carhartt beanie as we built a fort, threw snowballs, and made a snowman.

As I started to roll the mounds that would become the snowman’s body and head, I quickly realized my son had his own vision of what a snowman should be. We had stacked three imperfect spheres on top of each other and all of them were leaning slightly to one side like a snowman doing the cupid shuffle.

Then came the details. Now, I had a definitive look in mind. You know, the classic snowman complete with symmetrical coal eyes, a carrot nose, maybe a scarf wrapped neatly around the neck. Clean. Classic. Frosty.

My son had other ideas.

He dug through the snow near the house and returned with two giant, differently sized rocks and pressed them into the snowman’s face. “Those are his eyes,” he stated. One eye sat higher than the other, giving the snowman a look reminiscent of some famous talking vegetables. Next, he found a flat, brown piece of straw from the garden. “That’s his mustache.”

I had to just smile. As he stood back to look at his art, I watched him. A grin spread on his wet, rosy face. He looks up at me and asks “Is he cool, dad?”

“You made him son, what do you think?”

“I think he’s cool.”

“Yes, you created him, and enjoy it. He is cool - because you made him.”

As we stood there looking at our lumpy, slightly off-balance snowman, I couldn’t help but wonder if God sees us scrambling, shifting, trying to make something, anything, of our lives like how I observed my son building his snowman. Minus the desire to control the outcome, and the teeth gritting, as we slap more snow together and make strange lumps on what should be a smooth face.

There’s this idea in the Bible that talks about how we, as created beings, are designed to create. We are purposed to make something, after the fashion of our Father. So we write stories, cook meals, launch ministries, build businesses, create art, raise families…

Except, if I’m honest, most of what I create feels a bit like that snowman. Complete with large, non-uniform eyeballs and a chunk of dirty straw for a mustache. I imagine God watching us the way I watched my son. Not with crossed arms and a critique sheet. Not with a measuring tape and a disappointed sigh.

But with a smile.

There’s a sense that as I look at God and ask breathless from effort, if what I’ve made is cool, He simply smiles and says “you made it son, so yes, it is cool.” Not because it’s perfect. Not because it meets some supernatural aesthetic, but because we made it. Because we tried. Because we are His.

At the end of the day, that snowman began to melt. The mustache flew off in the wind. An eye fell out. By morning, he looked even less like a snowman and more like that pile of thanksgiving mashed potatoes on your plate. My son didn’t care. For that afternoon, it had been enough because he had built something. He had found joy in the journey, rolling the snowballs, and stepping into his father’s footprints.

Building a snowman with my son was a nice reminder for my soul. At the end of the day, as lumpy, melty, and misshapen our life might be, the light of joy in our Father’s eyes never fades. He watches us struggle, slip, smile, succeed— and all the while says “I made you, I love you, and ask nothing of you. You are just loved.” Maybe at the end of the day that’s what matters most.

---

Brenton Sconce is a father, former pastor, and recovery advocate who writes about faith, family, restoration, and doing hard things on purpose. He is the founder of BEAR — A Recovery Foundation, an initiative focused on supporting individuals and families impacted by addiction and will be bear crawling the Bloomsday 12k to raise awareness and funds for aftercare scholarships this May. Brenton is passionate about helping Christian parents cultivate homes grounded in grace, truth, and the enduring hope of the gospel.

Learn more about his work:

https://substack.com/@brentonsconce

Socials: @bearrecoveryfoundation and @officerecovery