I graduated from medical school in May of 1993 and moved my family from Missouri to the Florida Panhandle to begin my family medicine residency. We were excited about the move and the new adventure—but no one was more excited than our five-year-old daughter, Hannah.
“Are we in Florida yet?” a small voice squeaked from the back seat.
And so it went for the next few hundred miles.
Eventually we rolled through the tiny border town of Florala, Alabama and crossed into the Sunshine State. After a brief family celebration, a clearly disappointed Hannah piped up again.
“Where’s the beach, Daddy? Where’s Mickey and Minnie?”
Poor thing. Northern Florida looked a lot like southern Alabama—pine trees, red dirt, and gas stations. Nothing like the glossy brochures promising sugar-white beaches or Disney castles. In time, though, Florida redeemed itself. That spring we finally made it to Disney World, and by the end of summer Hannah was an accomplished sandcastle architect.
Seasons passed quickly that first year, and before we knew it, Christmas arrived.
Disney was a distant memory, the surf was far too cold for swimming, and our hearts turned toward home, family, and the familiar. We wouldn’t be able to make it back to Missouri for Christmas. Hannah felt that loss keenly. On Christmas Eve she asked a hopeful question.
“Will it snow tomorrow?”
I tried to let her down gently. “No, honey. It doesn’t snow here. Florida has lots of fun things—warm weather, beaches, and Disney World—but not snow.”
“But I want it to snow on Christmas!” she pleaded. Clearly, beaches and Mickey were no longer sufficient.
Diana smiled and chimed in. “Hannah, it would take a miracle for that to happen. Maybe you could pray for snow.”
I worried she was setting Hannah up for disappointment. My daughter was asking for the improbable—if not the impossible. As her father and supposed spiritual leader, I’d like to say I joined my faith with hers, but I didn’t. I stayed quiet. Hannah and Diana were on their own.
So Hannah prayed.
“Lord Jesus, please let it snow on Christmas. Amen.”
That was it. No bargaining. No qualifiers.
Christmas morning, Hannah burst out the front door shrieking with delight. We rushed outside to see what had caused the commotion. Snowflakes—big, soft, unmistakable snowflakes—floated down from a sunlit sky. Hannah ran back and forth across the yard, mouth wide open, catching them on her tongue.
It lasted maybe twenty minutes. There was no accumulation. The sun kept shining.
But snow, it did.
Hannah was beside herself. “Daddy! Jesus sent us snow for Christmas!”
I stood there dumbfounded, caught between my adult skepticism and the simple, unguarded faith of a child.
“Yes He did, sweetie.”
Dash Stories 