Cindy Eastman
Linda was the Godmother to all three of my children, truly their second mother. I’ll never forget that she was the first person I confided in about my pregnancies, even before my husband, all three times. Despite never having children of her own, Linda had an innate grace with kids. She listened to them with an open heart, showering them with love in a way that made them feel like the most cherished souls in the room. My kids adored her. She took them to the beach and taught them how to swim and snorkel, pulling them along on boogie boards for hours while using her laminated fish card to teach them all the names. One of her favorite memories was when Ryan, at just 1.5 years old, crawled over to someone else's cooler, opened it, and started eating their chicken—she laughed about that for years. After our beach outings, she would help me smooth out Ryan's chubby arms filled with sand, and we would just laugh.
Linda was the kind of friend you could always rely on, regardless of the situation. Whether the challenges were large or small, she was there—bringing warm meals, lending a listening ear, sharing a fine glass of wine, or simply providing her calming presence. She had an extraordinary ability to make life seem a little more manageable, no matter how chaotic it became.
I particularly remember the times I faced struggles—when life felt uncertain, and I didn’t know where to turn next. In those moments, Linda’s unwavering support truly shone. She never judged, questioned, or sought explanations—she simply loved.
Her simple yet profound reassurances became lifelines during my darkest times. “Don’t worry,” she would say, her voice calm and firm. “You will always have food, and you’ll always have a place to stay.” Those words resonate in my mind, a gentle reminder of her steadfast presence.
It may seem simple, but there was depth to it—a quiet promise that I would never be alone, no matter how difficult the road ahead. She offered not just a meal or a roof over my head—she offered her heart, her unwavering belief that, regardless of the circumstances, I was loved, safe, and always had a home.
Linda’s love was not about grand gestures or extravagant displays; it was about consistent presence and providing what mattered most: the certainty that you were never alone. When life felt overwhelming, there was always a safe harbor, and it would always be with her.
Even now, though she has passed, I carry that reassurance with me. Her words continue to echo: “You will always have food and a place to stay with me.” It’s a promise she kept, not only through her actions but in the way she made you feel. That kind of unwavering, unconditional love does not fade; it remains a quiet yet steadfast presence in my life, reminding me of the true gift that was Linda.
I can’t help but smile when I reflect on those years, the memories we created together—the hours spent in the ocean, the flavors of her cooking, the holiday and birthday celebrations, the love she poured into my children, the way her laughter filled the air, and her playful sly smile when she was being mischievous. Her wisdom guided many of my decisions with gentle grace. She was more than a friend; she was family.