It had only been a few weeks since my mom died and I needed some air. The weather was warm for autumn so I sat on a bench at the shady part of the yard with my family Bible. I wanted to read a favorite psalm in memory of Mom—but found myself thinking about my dad instead.
Dad died when I was only 10, so my memories of him were precious: He’d worked as a typesetter for the local newspaper. He always called me “princess.” I held his hand while we walked to church every Sunday. I had a lifetime of memories with Mom. I even took care of her during the last year of her life. We were as close as best friends. Mom and Dad are together now, I thought, resting the Bible on my lap. They’d both left me behind.
The wind picked up and ruffled the pages of my Bible, revealing an old newspaper clipping tucked inside. What is this doing in here? I thought, looking at it more closely. The clipping was from the paper my dad had worked for. In fact, the piece was written by him; a short, sweet story about me when I was only six years old. Dad awoke early one morning to find me already up, preparing for my first day of kindergarten. He called my mom over and they both proudly watched me get ready from my bedroom door.
I carefully tucked the clipping back into our Bible for safe-keeping. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. They hadn’t left me behind. They were with angels who watched over me today like they did that morning so many years ago.
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