Today as I look out the window, we are in the middle of an all-out winter snowstorm.

Snowstorms always take me back to a time when our lives had just become more complicated with the birth of our firstborn. We learned we had to start out a little earlier for everything we did, and ran on donuts and soda pop for breakfast sometimes when we forgot how early we had to start out in the mornings.

The forecast for one particular winter work day called for heavy snow, so as I worked writing commercials for the local radio station, I kept an eye on the weather. Turns out, I should have paid more attention to the weather guy who was just downstairs.

Things didn’t seem all that bad, until it hit. The wind came up suddenly, and just like that, visibility had started to become an issue.

Of course, my first instinct was to get home with our infant daughter before things really got rolling. Only a farm person would race against time to willingly head out into the open country in a frantic effort to beat Mother Nature at her own game.

Being so responsible, I called our neighbor before I left the radio station to see if the road was open at the corner near their place that always plugged up with any amount of snow.

He said he would check it and clear it if it was plugged. I called our daycare provider and asked her to get our daughter ready to go.

A few miles out of town, it was beginning to be a real struggle to see. Halfway home I began to seriously regret my desire to get home. I was nervous about where the side of the road was and where the middle of the road was. I was nervous about rear-ending someone, or someone rear-ending us. I was nervous about having a stand-off with a snow drift, and realizing that we would be in serious trouble if that happened–with gale-force winds, a very tiny baby in the car, and no food for her with me if we became stranded.

And all in the days before cell phones.

I looked at her and wondered why I had left the safety of town, to head out into the wide open, white tundra that the country was quickly becoming. It was my first experience of feeling like a failure as a mother. Little did I know then that life would dole out plenty more opportunity for that before this job of raising our children was over.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the turn-off for the blacktop I needed, which was not far from our home. But it also meant I still had a big hurdle to cross once I got half a mile from our home–that corner that always drifted shut. I had fought my emotions and strained my eyes on this endless drive, but I knew the hardest part could be waiting just ahead of me.

I turned onto the blacktop with both relief and trepidation, while our daughter slept in the car seat. I was jealous of her as I felt the terrible weight of this responsibility –and irresponsibility–on my shoulders.

Much to my surprise, as I came closer to that corner, I saw the neighbor whom I had called earlier … waiting at the end of his driveway … on his John Deere tractor with the loader ready … watching the storm, and waiting for me to come by. It was like a weight was lifted.

I’m not sure he knew that my angel that day was dressed in insulated coveralls and a heavy winter ear-lopper cap, and sitting on top of a tractor. It was one of my first experiences in realizing the true value of a neighbor.

In farm country we all look out for each other, and we help each other not only in our work, but in our time of need. We celebrate together, and our neighbors are often those who carry us to our final resting places. Farmers grow crops and livestock … and deep friendships.

Thank heaven for maturity and wisdom that come with the years. But I have been especially grateful over those same years for the kindness, sincerity, friendship and selfless generosity of good neighbors.

And for angels. Disguised as our neighbors.

Karen Schwaller writes from her grain and livestock farm near Milford, Iowa. She can be reached via email at kschwaller@evertek.net