You can blow bubbles outside even while it’s snowing. Sure, the wind will whip most of them away at top speed before you can lay eyes on them. A few will be punctured in the cold, fuzzy onslaught. That’s assuming you can stay focused and aim your breath through the target despite Old Man Winter’s war on you and your foolish notion.

With the right combination of persistence and timing, your Sisyphean efforts will produce a few shimmering, fragile globes, floating in the narrow space between obstacles. For scant seconds, you can enjoy your tiny, beautiful creation and derive a little joy from it.

Something I learned today: For kids born with cystic fibrosis, blowing bubbles is sometimes suggested as a form of physical therapy to practice different forms of breathing. Later in life, if and when their condition escalates to the point where a lung transplant becomes necessary, successful candidates will celebrate with post-surgical bubble-blowing, in honor of their newly acquired breathing capacity.

I wish I could say I learned this from clicking WikiPedia’s “Random article” button. That’s sadly not the case. Today my wife and I learned this when we attended a memorial celebration for a young lady named Melanie who passed away this week at age 18 due to complications from CF. Although she’d spent quite some time working her way up the long ladder of transplant candidacy, her body unfortunately wasn’t ready in time.

We know her parents from church, each of them a sterling example of grace under pressure and faith in the face of the worst of adversities. Her younger sister was also born with CF. Between the treatments, the hospitalizations, the modified routines (not to mention juggling of all of this between two patients), and the usual trials and tribulations that any of us face in a given life, Theirs hasn’t been the easiest of paths to walk. Despite the pressures and the hard times, it’s been inspiring to watch God work in and through their lives nonetheless.

And she refused to settle for the angry shut-in’s life. She was an avid painter. She did makeup and set/prop design for a local theater. She had experience in animal training. She was (hyper)active in our church. In her weaker moments this sometimes meant dragging along an oxygen tank while she performed her chosen tasks and served others regardless of the burden. Neither difficult breathing nor low oxygen levels would keep her from her missions when she put her mind to it.

The photo montage at the memorial service was a collection of joyous moments — plenty of smiles, friendships, and accomplishments. More than a few shots gave us the vantage point of a hospital bed, but captured the same level of joy and drive, dreary surroundings notwithstanding. One of our youth ministers delivered warm, funny recollections of a life lived more fully and remarkably in those brief eighteen years than some ordinary people three times her age.

As we exited the service, each attendee received a two-inch vial of bubbles with tiny bubble wand. Our instructions, per the family’s wishes: go forth, blow bubbles in tribute to her, take photos, and share the results.

My immediate surroundings may not have been the most comfortable or conducive setting. Any bubbles I did conjure were fortunate to survive more than a single second. But the precious few victors who defied those odds were a creation to admire with an inherent beauty all their own, to be treasured for as long as they lasted.