Paw Prints In the Snow

Where I come from, pets were not inside animals.  In the country, when I was growing up, only the most spoiled, daintiest of animals stayed in the house.  At our home, there was no such animals.  We had pets – dogs and cats galore throughout my youth.  From Percy, my Persian cat and very closest confidant when I was young, all the way to Trouble, Dad’s last dog.  They were no less loved, no less adored because they lived outside.  And truly, those animals loved the freedom of roaming where they wanted on the farm.  They came and went, played and stalked, lounged and snoozed.  They were there underfoot for petting, for feeding, for love, and then they were off for their own fun.  They lived outside –slept under the boxwoods in the summertime, lounged on the side porch, and for the cats, clamored by the back door in hopes to scoot past Greg or Daddy’s foot and sneak into the house for table scraps.  But in the winter, when the snow came, they had other plans.  They headed for the barn, the garage, the tractor shed, to bed down for the cold wet nights.  They had their own hidey holes, places where they’d snuggle up and stay warm and dry.  Sometimes, they’d even curl up together, dogs and cats snoozing on a warm bed of hay.

When morning came, though, I’d gaze out the window at a yard filled with new fallen snow, and see a comforting sight.  All around, there would be paw prints in the soft powder.  Just deep enough to leave a mark, fresh enough to make out.  Prints that sang “We made it through the night, and now it’s time to explore.”  Those paw prints were a welcome sight to me, a sign that all was well, that Jack and Jill, Percy and Snowball had made it through the cold and were out and about.  I loved the beauty of a fresh snow, but I loved the paw prints most of all.  They were a calling card of a close friend.  They always made me smile, always made me feel better, always made my heart sing.  Even if I couldn’t go out and enjoy the snow myself, they were there, tip-toeing through the cold, frolicking in the snow like kids.  And when I could, I went out and followed the paw prints, played with the pets, and enjoyed my time with them, leaving my own footprints along side theirs.

These last few days, in the wake of Daddy’s death, I’ve been blessed with a different sort of calling card, just as sweet a reminder.  Friends and family have strolled through my life, leaving what solace they could in a time where solace is hard to find.  They have done what they could, and though my head was filled with pain and sorrow, my heart was filled with warmth at the gestures.  Some brought food so that my mother would have dinner without having to think about it.  Some came and sat, holding hands and patting shoulders through the pain and the tears.  Some called, expressing their love, promising to be there for the hard days and months ahead.  And as we walked through the days, the little gestures were so big.  A voicemail from a friend, giving strength when I couldn’t find my own, that I will keep on my phone.  A card with just the right words, that made me cry but made me think too, and made me remember better days.  Familiar faces to hold me up during the long and painful hours at the funeral home, whispered love and understanding that kept my legs beneath me just a little longer.   Gazing at the understanding face of a friend before walking with the family into chapel, feeling blessed through the sadness.  They have held my hand and sometimes, touched my heart.  They reached out and held me up when I needed it, and they sat back and let me cry when it was time to cry.  Through the sorrow, they found some little spark of humor, and brought a smile to my face.  Or they just sat beside me, and let the moment be.  They left their paw prints, one and all.

Before Daddy died, I don’t think I ever imagined how much those people and those moments would matter.  I know I have often wondered if my own small gestures during times of sorrow for others, were worthwhile, were useful.  I have cooked food, gone for short visits, walked through the line at the funeral home.  But I have often thought I may be more in the way than helpful.  I was so wrong.  Not a person who called or visited, sent a card or even sent a kind message through social networking, can ever imagine what a blessing they were.  Visits took my mind off my own sorrow, and let me enjoy a moment with an old friend.  Calls interrupted a painful silence, and kept my mind from wandering back to what I’ve lost.  Beautiful flowers gave me a place to rest my sight other than on that solemn casket.  Cards, to this moment, touch my heart and feel like a distant hug.  They matter, they all matter.  In my heart, there is ache that I know will never totally go away, but there is a comfort that so many people are there to help me get through the hardest parts.   So many people have shared their love and understanding and grace.  So many friends have touched my heart from across the years and across the miles.  I cannot put in words how they made me feel, except that they were like those paw prints in the snow, and to this moment, they make me smile.

I only hope, I can leave my own set of paw prints for each of you, when you need it.