Yesterday’s storm was a bully, so different from the one over Shabbat. The shabbat snow was lovely, wet and thick, enveloping with passion every object it encountered. It was indiscriminate in its affection, shamelessly clinging to every surface along its way. And in the process, it allowed every surface, every branch, every pole, to shine, until it smothered it with volume and weight. For a moment at least, as with last week’s snow, it was all so very beautiful. It was as if the storm wanted to be loved, only it did not know the fullness of its power.

Yesterday’s storm, however, just blustered. The flakes were too fine and sharp. They seemed more interested in blowing than settling, and so they did not settle well. The trees look a bit chaotic now, that is, covered with dashes of indifferent snow tossed erratically here and there, unlike last week, when they appeared elegantly coated with the stuff that tenderly clings to its lover.

Perhaps that explains the differing responses we have to it. Each storm may have unlocked its own chamber in us.

Perhaps it is how white the whole world looks right now; perhaps how pristine it all seems. Perhaps it is how overwhelming it feels, or how raw and honest; or even how brutal. But there is something in these back to back storms that has unleashed pent up depths of emotion, for better and for worse, across Baltimore.

On the darker side, while homicides are down, domestic violence is up. Frustration and immobility, being forced to stay put, feeling trapped both emotionally and physically, seems to have triggered a rash of assaults against those we live with. We can understand it and must rail against it, but perhaps also with all the exigencies we are cautioned to prepare for in the approach of a storm, explosions of violence should now be among them. Potential victims, potential abusers, hotlines, emergency response teams might all be on higher alert and take precautionary measures when cabin fever threatens to set in.

On the positive side, story after story has been shared across phone lines, emails, text messages and more about friends and neighbors helping each other out, checking in and otherwise being there for each other. A family member making a last minute grocery run calls to see what you might need; parents and adult children talk more than usual just to be sure everyone is okay. Neighbors grab shovels on streets where plows can’t go and, like an old-fashioned barn-raising, go house to house to shovel everyone out. Parents spend time just being with their young children, playing games they haven’t seen in months. And the rare but intrepid cross country skiers amble about deserted roads and empty towns enjoying views not ordinarily seen.

With few of us daring to venture out, more of us re-discovered what it is like to eat in. That meant more home cooking, fuller kitchens, dusting off old family recipes, creating new family traditions, making brighter hearths, warmer hearts, and more intimate, honest conversations. Perhaps sharing thoughts long overdue; perhaps just sitting side by side, catching up on what you meant to say weeks ago.

Nine months after the great summer blackout of 1977, New York City experienced a small baby boomlet. Perhaps nine months from now, mid-Atlantic hospital nurseries will also be full.

Natural disasters tend to bring out the best and the worst in people. We are creatures of the world, in the world, in more ways than we dare to imagine. Our biographies, our personal narratives, our very relationships are affected by the weather, the climate, the way nature behaves all around us.

The personal stories of what happened this historic week may never all be revealed. But for some of us, they will never be forgotten. May you make yours a story of blessing, one for the ages.