When the kids were little and I was a schoolteacher, snow days were baking days at our house. I thought that chapter of my life was over, now that the kids are grown and I work at home. This morning, my son came downstairs and looked outside. He declared the day not good for splitting and hauling wood. “Maybe today we should make cookies,” he suggested.

So while I reorganized my office, sorted mail, and finished an article, he started baking. By mid-afternoon, we had three boxes of biscotti ready to mail: one for Mike and Brenda who housed us two weekends ago, one for the Trauma Therapy Institute, and one for Discovery House Publishers. A box of shortbread was ready to send to the monks.

All morning, I kept shaking my head. “Is this real?” I asked myself every five minutes. “Is my son in the kitchen baking?” Over the past five years, I had made peace with his decision to be a monk. I blocked out the hope of any other end to his story.

Our trip to the post office to mail the boxes was uneventful, so the goodies are on the way. But the pick up got stuck in our driveway on the way home, and we had to walk the rest of the way. I can see the snow piling up on the hood as I write.

The immediate future is unsettled at our house. Allen’s adjusting to the outside world. I’m adjusting to having him around.  My husband is driving home in a snowstorm tonight, and the weather doesn’t look good for Anne’s return from college Thursday. When they do get home, they can’t get into the garage because of the pick up blocking the driveway.

But this afternoon, I’m not worried about the future. Instead, I’m relishing a stormy day spent baking, getting stuck in the driveway, hiking through the snow, and the gift of sharing these things with my son.

Can this day be real?