The Meaning of a Snowfall

The Meaning of a Snowfall



In Loving Memory of Linda



March 18, 1949 - March 3, 1980

         It was Friday, February 28, 1980. After only 11 ½ years of marriage, my 30-year-old, wonderful, compassionate, caring and devoted wife and high school sweetheart, Linda, who was also an epileptic, would die in 3 days. Only we didn’t know that, then. Nor did I, personally, truly know the strength of her faith. But I was about to find out. Bigtime. A passage from the autobiography I’ve written about the years we had together says it best:



         That Friday night brought her another joy. She loved snow. Loved to romp and play, especially snowball fights with Little Sister. By bedtime Friday, it was a blizzard. We had almost 3 inches by then, and she couldn't wait to see what we had in the morning.

         Saturday, when we awoke at about 11:00 a.m., the first thing she did was run to the window.

         "Jim! Look!!"

         I moved quickly to her side. "Geez!"

         "How much do you think it is?" She couldn't contain the enthusiasm any longer.

         "Looks to be about 6-8 inches, honey. This is just what we bought the truck for. It's nice to feel secure about getting around town right now."

         "Yeah. Can we go to mom and dad's?"

         "Why not? Won't be much else going on today, anyhow. I'll drop you off and surprise my folks too by showing up to get some piano work out."

         Her folks were slightly surprised. Mine were flabbergasted. But then, mom never did like me driving in that kind of weather without a darn good reason. Mothers can be like that, especially since she hated driving in it herself.

         That night, a few minutes after we climbed into bed, we lay in each other's arms, her head on my chest.

         "Jim, that snowfall last night was just what I'd been praying for."

         “You asked for this?!" I wasn't upset, just openly surprised.

         "Yep."

         "I should have known," I chuckled. "You and snow are inseparable.” I thought to myself, “Now THAT'S faith!” And, momentarily, I thought about her openly childlike attitude, and faith, which she’d had since the day we met my senior year in high school. She kept the child alive in me, and I’ve always been thankful for that.



         Monday night, March 3rd, 1980, while I was not home, Linda had a seizure, striking her head on the tile wall in our bathroom. She died instantly. I found her an hour and forty-five minutes later.

         Later that week, as the shock of her passing very slowly began to fade, I fully realized the true strength of her faith for myself. The Lord knew her time was near, and had granted her last prayer request so she could see, one last time, a sight of this world that she loved so very much.

         Every time it snows, now, I think of her, even after 44 years. Sometimes remembering all the fun, honesty and love that we shared. Sometimes remembering that last snowfall she asked for, as if she's saying, "I’m thinking of you, darling!" or “Remember when I asked for this, honey?” to me with the latest one, regardless of how deep that latest snowfall might be. Sometimes hurting a great deal deep, down inside because she's no longer here; but if she were, she'd still be suffering through those seizures; and I couldn't do that to her. But I love the way she never fails to let me know she's thinking of me. And it's a great feeling to know that I have a very special Guardian Angel watching over me, who loves me as much now, today, as she did the last time I held her in my arms, and that I will see her again when my time comes.