“Now, Bernie, don’t go outside alone–not even to get the mail,” my doctor warned over the phone. “These North Dakota winters are dangerous. If you slip, who will be there to help you?”
I appreciated his concern, but… not even for the mail? At 61, I wasn’t as sure on my feet as I used to be, but I was no invalid.
He was right about one thing though. I was often alone. My husband and I had a brood of 14, but they had all flown the nest–and the icy winters of our small town. While my husband was working, I was by myself.
I looked outside. Over a foot of snow blanketed the neighborhood. Our driveway was a steep slope and needed to be shoveled. Okay, Lord, I prayed. Walk with me.
Slowly, I trudged down to the mailbox and got my mail. Ha! There! Triumphant, I turned back up the slope.
My rubber boots lost their grip. Envelopes flew. Sliding helplessly on the ice, I spun around just barely managing to hug the mailbox. I caught my breath.
“Here–let me help you.” A tall, dark-haired man, wearing only a T-shirt and overalls stood beside me. Who in his right mind would dress like that in this weather? But I accepted his offer.
He held me gently by the elbow, guiding me up the slope, step by step, to my front door. “Thank you,” I said, glancing down at my snowy boots, stomping them on the welcome mat. “Aren’t you cold like that?” He didn’t answer.
I looked up. He wasn’t standing beside me. I was alone. Only one trail of footprints led up the snowy driveway to my front door.
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