By Elizabeth Barhydt
There’s an Irish phrase that came over the radio Sunday morning, just as we were pouring coffee and watching the snowfall build: go raibh an lá leat — may the day be with you.
It was said by a woman hosting WFUV’s “A Thousand Welcomes,” right between a fiddle reel and a ballad about leaving Ireland to come to America. We had the volume low, the windows were bright, and the world outside was disappearing by the hour.
The storm came exactly as expected. We’d had plenty of warning. The fridge was full. The woodpile stacked. The roads were closed. There was nowhere to be but here.
Our four-month-old black lab—who’s still trying to figure out stairs—was curled on the couch, deeply asleep. One paw over her face. The fire in the fireplace had been going since before breakfast. Outside, snow flakes fell in the millions every minute, erasing the shape of the woods. Inside, we watched.
The feeders by the window were crowded with birds— cardinals, bluebirds, little flashes of red and blue moving fast between branches. They seemed methodical and certain. They knew what they needed, and they didn’t waste time getting it.
The soup was already going in the kitchen, simmering under a fogged lid in the slow cooker. The kind that makes the whole house smell like something good is coming.
And then my daughter walked into the room with a cookbook and said, “I think we have what we need to make sticky buns.” Her brother offered to help. They pulled ingredients from the pantry—some planned, some improvised—and worked the way you do when the day is yours. No rush. Lots of messiness and laughter.
That’s the thing about snow days.
They don’t ask you to do much. They just give you time. And if you’re lucky, they give you each other.
The whole family was home. No errands. No appointments. Just room to move around each other, to talk, to read, to stay in the kitchen longer than necessary. It reminded me what snow days really give children— not just a break from school, though they’re grateful for that— but something really important to them: the joy of choosing how the day unfolds, with the people they love.
Read? Bake? Play with the dog? Color in the Sentinel? Make a snowman? Sled down the back hill?
It’s not about avoiding school. It’s about belonging to the day.
And maybe that’s what we forget in our normal pace—how much joy lives in the unscheduled, the slow, the simple. Sometimes it’s a snowball or a mixing bowl or a leash in a child’s hand.
Sometimes it’s sitting by the fire while Irish music plays and the puppy sighs in her sleep.
There’s something rare about hearing everyone’s voice at once, in the same room, without the push of a clock. And there’s something even rarer about not needing to fill the silence. Just letting it hold.
Don’t get me wrong—we believe in showing up. Parent meetings, volunteer shifts, planning committees, church suppers, field days, town votes—we’ve done them all, and we’ll keep doing them. There is something vital in being part of the daily rhythm of a place: stepping in, helping out, being counted. It’s how we stay connected to our neighbors, how we pass along what we know, and how our children learn that belonging isn’t just a feeling—it’s a responsibility.
But every now and then, it helps to pause. To remember that being involved doesn’t always mean being in motion. Community is built in busy seasons, yes—but it’s also deepened in quiet ones. Around a kitchen table. During a walk with a friend. While reading the same newspaper as your neighbor across town. Sometimes presence is the most generous form of participation we have. And on days like this—when the snow keeps us close—it’s good.
Outside, the plow passed again. We knew exactly what it was. Church bells chimed faintly in the distance. No one moved to check the time.
We stayed in.
Snow fell, soup simmered, sticky buns rose, and we were together.
The day never asked us to do more than that.
Go raibh an lá leat.
May the day be with you.
