Blizzard of '55

Jump back to 1955. You're a pastor's wife in a small town. Your husband left in the morning to visit one of his many distant parishes, despite the pellets of ice and snow that had already begun to gust down and around. Throughout the day you're barely able to drown out that gnawing sense of fear in your stomach as the snow blows harder and thicker and the winds pick up. Your three-year-old son and one-year-old daughter demand much attention; the distraction is a welcome reprieve from your thoughts. But every time you look out a window at the thickening white wall, your mouth goes dry. Although you've been sending a continual string of prayers to God all day, every possible bad scenario shoves its way easily to the surface, and with each scenario a touch of sickening nausea. You prepare supper for four, but only two eat...you can barely stomach anything by now. You tuck your children into bed and say that Daddy is staying at a friend's house so he can come home tomorrow when the snow stops, but you secretly wonder how you'll ever explain yourself if the truth turns out to be the unbearable alternative.

The storm continues. White fades to gray, then black. The house is eerily quiet now but for the harsh snow pelting wood and windowpanes, and the wind whistling all around. The clock is ticking. You're on your knees, still praying, still stealing glances at the phone...knowing that if it rings at any second you're likely to have a heart attack. It's the sound you've been dying for and dreading all day long.
Somehow the night passes. Several times you heard the door open and your husband slip into bed beside you, and several times you saw a police cruiser pull into your driveway. Every time you woke up from one of these scenarios, you weren't even sure if you'd actually been sleeping. Never has worry caused you to question your own sanity like it has now.
Then you realize that the blizzard has stopped. The sun is shining brightly through your windows, and when you look outside you see nothing but blue sky and white earth. The drifts are high and, somewhere in your consciousness, you're able to assess that they're quite beautiful. After rousing your children and having breakfast, you set yourself to the task of shoveling off the driveway. The arrival of the sun has given you a touch of hope...you must prepare the way for your husband's return.
The morning comes and goes...your driveway is clear and you're busy at other tasks around the house, forcing yourself to sing lightheartedly for your children's sakes. The phone has rung several times as well-meaning friends have called to check in on the family. Your heart can't take it anymore...but you just can't take the phone off the hook.
And then you hear it: a faint, familiar motor. One that you've heard every day for the past five years as you've cleaned up breakfast and prepared supper. One that now grows louder and louder until finally, heart racing, your nose pressed up against the window, you see it come into view. That hideous, cheap automobile that you can barely afford pulls into the cleared-out driveway with a wonderful, weary-looking face behind the wheel. Without knowing it you've already begun to run through the house, out the door, and toward the man stepping out of the car. It has never felt so good to have his arms around you and your arms around him, squeezing yesterday's fears away and filling up with what little warmth he has left in his body. You quickly usher him inside to warm up, eat, and relax. The children are overjoyed, you are so relieved you can barely walk on shaky legs, and all you can say to God is "Thank You, thank You, thank You..."


So yeah, we just had a horrible blizzard and it got cold and icy and driving was a bit treacherous, and I'll be the first to admit that cabin fever sets in pretty quick when you can barely even see outside your windows. But one thing that I took for granted was the fact that we never lost our power, and the phone lines weren't affected. People were calling to and from our house throughout the day to make sure friends and family were safe and warm. Back in 1955 Grandpa Salte had to pull over and stay with a farm family that didn't own a phone, so there was no way for him to get in touch with Grandma and tell her he was alright. I can't imagine surviving a day of worry like that, and I'm so thankful that wasn't an issue for those of us who saw the Great Blizzard of '07.