A Father Speaks to His Daughter from Heaven

Today's miracle from guest blogger Arlene Shovald tells the story of a series of miraculous signs.

Posted in , Sep 1, 2015

A father speaks to his daughter in a series of signs from heaven.

Do miracles occur more often in the tough times, the good times or just about anytime?  

Take a look at today’s miracle from guest blogger Arlene Shovald of Salida, Colorado. She was feeling down, coming up on the anniversary of her father’s death. She asked for a sign. And received not one, not two, but multiple messages from heaven. 

Here’s her incredible story…

My father passed away on Leap Day in 1996. Pa, as we called him, was a stickler for details, especially dates. You never celebrated a birthday, for example, on a Saturday just because it was convenient. You celebrated on the “right day,” the actual date.

So when he died on February 29, after spending almost a week in a coma, it was no surprise. It was almost like he was making sure we’d never forget the date.  

Thirteen years after he passed away, I was still thinking about Pa and his love of celebrations. It was February 27 and I was missing him more than ever.

“I miss you, Pa,” I whispered. “If you’re still around, please show me a yellow rose.”

A yellow rose. Pa’s favorite flower. The thought had popped up out of nowhere. Too bad it was highly unlikely I’d find one in the middle of winter in Colorado.

Two days later, on the “real” anniversary of Pa’s death, I attended the funeral of my friend Maggie. The moment I stepped inside the church, I was handed a program. The cover art made me gasp. A yellow rose! I noticed the floral arrangement on the coffin–full of yellow roses. Then things got even stranger.

The minister began to speak. As she did so, she pulled one yellow rose from the arrangement and walked around the church, handing petals to a select few of the nearly 200 people in attendance. She explained that yellow roses were Maggie’s favorite flower. I was sitting all the way in the back of the church, hidden from view, yet somehow the minister found me and handed me a bright yellow petal too.

Later, at the cemetery, the minister invited each of us to take a flower in memory of Maggie as we left. Guess which one she offered me? A yellow rose. How odd. What were the chances I’d actually receive yellow roses on the anniversary of Pa’s death? Could Pa be sending me a sign? Maybe. Maybe not.  

I arrived home from the funeral to find my college-aged granddaughter, Ashley, waiting for me. She needed photos for a little project she was working on. I pulled out a stack of 10 photo albums and set them on the dining room table. Meanwhile, I caught Ashley up on the events of the funeral and the yellow roses.

When Ashley opened the first album on the table, her jaw dropped.

“Grandma, you won’t believe this!” she said. “Look!”

On the first page was a photo of an arrangement of flowers I’d received many, many years earlier. Yellow roses!

The message was clear. Pa was gone, but certainly not forgotten. And he hadn’t forgotten me either.

Now, every year on the anniversary of his death, I buy myself a yellow rose. A reminder that we’ll meet again, someday.

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