We were in our 70s when George was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer that quickly spread to his liver. “I hope it doesn’t interfere with my golf game,” he joked. Nothing ever got in the way of his sense of humor.
George was a golf nut to the end. He spent as much time as he could on the links. I didn’t mind–I wanted him to be happy. But one night I got up the courage to make my own request. “After you’re gone, I’d like a sign to tell me you’re safe in God’s heaven.”
“Yes,” he said, taking my hand.
A few months after George died I still hadn’t gotten my sign. “You promised, George,” I said out loud in the kitchen. Moments later I heard music coming from another room. The den maybe?
I went to investigate. The musical snow globe with a golfer inside–I’d forgotten we even had it. There was no one else here to wind it now. My golf nut was safe in God’s heaven.
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