My friend Abbas is from Nigeria.  He’s one of those guys whose smile and laughter are infectious.  His eyes squint as he smiles, and his laughter booms in a deep belly laugh, breathing life into any group he’s with.  He was the pastor of our church when we lived in Venezuela twenty years ago, so he and his wife Ilse prayed for us and offered counsel when things got hard.

Just recently, they stayed with us in Colorado for a couple of months.  We hadn’t seen them since we left Venezuela, so we did everything together.  We went to Denver, visited Glen Eyrie castle and ate delicious dinners, but my favorite memory didn’t involve us going anywhere.  We just enjoyed a few pennies.

But what do I mean by pennies?

All year in my class, pennies have been a major topic of conversation.  Annie Dillard uses them as a symbol in her book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and just a few days ago, I handed one to each of my students as we said goodbye.  To Dillard, pennies represent the simple moments all around us that are meant to be treasured like a smile from a friend, a sunrise, or a hummingbird landing on a feeder.

One Wednesday morning at the beginning of May, I got up in the dark and opened the shutters.  The forecast was for 1 to 2 inches of snow, so I thought we might get a snow day or at least a delay.  When I looked outside, there was a blanket of white on the grass, and the porch lights across the street were blurred by the flakes still pouring down.  We had a summer snowstorm!

Maybe there’s hope, I thought.

To be totally honest, teachers get just as excited about snow as students.  Of course, I love my job, but there’s nothing like finding out school is delayed or cancelled.  It feel like an unexpected gift from a friend, like my wife buying me surprise jeans from Costco.

I grabbed my computer and clicked my way to the District 11 website.

“All District 11 schools will be on a 2-hour delay for 5-6-26.”

“Oh, thank you, God,” I whispered, dropping into my favorite comfy chair, and I meant it.  Costco may be able to offer jeans, but it definitely can’t provide snow days.  That kind of gift can only come from a God who knows when I’m tired.

I thought about going back to bed, but the old gears in my brain had already started moving, so that wasn’t happening.

Then, one beautiful idea flashed into my head (insert a choir of angels singing here).

The hot tub!!

Still sitting in the comfy chair, I spent some time reading my Bible, but the whole time, I kept thinking about that warm water.  The darkness outside began to give way to a hazy light, and I could see the snow still falling.  Finally, I got up from my chair and grabbed my swimsuit.

Ilse was making coffee in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Ilse,” I whispered.  Everyone was still asleep, so we had to be quiet.  I stood there holding my swimsuit.  Then, like the snow falling, another idea landed softly in my head.

Maybe Abbas wants to join me.

I’m not exactly in the habit of inviting adults who aren’t family to join me in the hot tub.  Maybe that’s because I’m an introvert or maybe it’s because I’m a little worried about the awkwardness someone might feel sitting next to a 50-something-year-old man in his swimsuit.  Plus, I typically try to avoid toes accidentally touching under the water.

Still, the idea wouldn’t go away, so I finally said it.

“Ilse, do you think Abbas would like to join me in the hot tub?”

“Let me ask,” she said.

“Just tell him I’m outside, and he can join me if he’d like.”  She nodded, and I rushed outside, tiptoeing across the cold, wet cement.

As soon as I sank into that hot water, every muscle in my body started singing.

I sat for a minute watching the snow fall.  Then, the door opened, and Abbas appeared.  He did the same tiptoeing dance across the cement, and as he stepped into the water, a bright smile lit up his face, like the fresh snow sparkling around us.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” I asked.

A giddy laugh burst out of him, and I laughed with him.

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” he said, leaning back against the headrest.  And he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Look at the snow!” he said, putting out his hand to catch the flakes, and I watched it gently fall on his black hair.

“And the trees!  They’re like glass!”

He was right.  The water on the trees had frozen, leaving a shiny coating.

He laughed again, splashing some warm water over his head.

Some birds sang in the tree above us, and Abbas pointed at them.

“Listen to those birds!” he shouted, wide-eyed like a little boy at Disneyland.  We both looked at them and listened.

“Pretty amazing,” I whispered, caught up in his wonder, and he nodded his head.

“God,” he said with a deep voice, “you’re so good,” and I knew he was praying.

“Amen,” I said.

“Erin, can you possibly turn on the bubbles?”

“Oh yeah, of course,” I said, leaning over and hitting the button.  The jets blasted against our backs, turning the calm waters into a turbulent, foaming massage.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” he said, and then with that huge grin, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

Jesus said anyone who doesn’t receive God’s kingdom like a child will never enter it (Mark 10:15).  Children notice the pennies, but they don’t just notice them; they receive them with gratitude.  That was Abbas.  While we soaked in that warm water, he was soaking up God’s goodness.  He had fresh eyes—a child’s eyes—and he lost himself in the joy of God’s handiwork.

Driving to work that morning, I knew I’d face complaining.  People would be upset that school was only delayed and not cancelled, but my heart was in a different place.  God had given me a glimpse of a man who became a child, and I wanted to be one too.

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