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Luna mothA colleague told me about his uncle who was killed in the Battle of the Bulge during World War II. He went to visit the military cemetery in Belgium where his uncle’s body was buried along with thousands of other casualties from that battle. He entered the memorial chapel where the book is kept that records the names of all the soldiers buried there, with the locations of the graves. He approached the book. It was already open to the page with the name of his uncle, out of thousands of names, and no one there to open the book for him.

A friend’s grandfather died at the ripe age of 95. He had lived at his own home and tended his own garden until a short final hospitalization. She had lived nearby and helped him in his garden. The day of the funeral they went back to his house for a family gathering, and near the front door there was a fresh rose blooming on an old plant, but the rose showed a new combination of red and white, his favorite rose colors, on a plant that before had only produced reds.

I had spent several hours of the day at the bedside of a dear and faithful member of the church, knowing that her time was growing short. She had no family left, and her aged peers could not remain at her side. I also needed a break and took a few minutes for something to eat, and returned as quickly as I could. When I approached the door to her room, I heard lovely symphonic music coming from inside. At least I thought it was coming from inside, though no player or radio had been there before. I supposed a thoughtful nurse had brought one in, to provide the soothing sounds that sometimes calm the sufferer. When I opened the door, walked into the room and stood at her bedside, I saw that she had died, her face finally serene after her struggles with pain. Then I noted that the music had stopped; the room was utterly quiet. There was no player or radio there, and there was no music coming from outside either.

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