My father was a rather quiet man, who always appreciated the world around him. For the sixty-five years he and my mother were married, he thanked Mom for the good meals she prepared, complimented her choice in clothes and hairstyle, and appreciated their lives together.
I loved that about my dad. He was the kind of father who made you feel that no matter what you did, you were loved.
On the last day of his life, Mom called to let me know that she didn’t think Dad, a World War II pilot and outdoorsman, would be around much longer. During the day, she had heard a loud thump in the kitchen.
When she went to investigate, she discovered that a bird had hit the window, leaving the imprint of its wing.
Logically, it was probably a mourning dove who had just taken a dust bath, but I have never seen or heard of one leaving an angel’s print. The print lasted for a long time, but there were no traces of a bird outside the window.
We know that God sent an angel to take my 92-year-old dad home so that he could fly and hike again.
