Dad’s Visit

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My husband Joe and I have had several paranormal experiences during our lives, individually before we met  and since our marriage thirty-one years ago.  We are down-to-earth,  commonsense people not given to flights of fancy.

Our  experiences are accepted as important facets of our  lives  and sometimes, the lesson to be learned  from an encounter is not always clear at the moment it happens. This is  an account of one experience I had. It was a chilly Monday night in the fall and my husband  was watching a  football game on a TV set in our bedroom, while I sat in the living room watching a movie on another  set.

It was about 9:30 P.M. I had been watching a movie and  dozed off,  which  I was prone to do occasionally. Upon waking, I saw  it was a little after ten O’clock. Having missed about thirty minutes of the movie I had planned to see, I decided to go to  bed to read. I went into the bathroom and began removing my  makeup and brushing my teeth.

While bending over the sink I had an uncontrollable urge to look into our  living  room, where I had just been sitting ten or fifteen minutes earlier. I had heard no  noise, nor had I any reason to glance  down the hall,  except  this almost uncontrollable need to  look to my left. As I looked down our seven-foot hall to the  living room, I saw a man walking from our living room into our kitchen.

He was  wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with dark trousers, and his head was bent slightly forward. I saw only the  side view of the man.  Why would Joe change his  clothes this late in the evening? I  thought. My husband had been dressed in a red shirt and  blue jeans. I then walked to the  bedroom, where I had last seen my  husband sitting and, behold-there he sat in  a red  shirt and jeans.

I immediately jumped  into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Joe said “What’s the matter, you look like you’ve seen a  ghost.”

I replied, “I just saw a man walk from  the living room into the kitchen.”

Joe jumped up from  the chair and ran to the living room and kitchen to confront the intruder. I followed closely on  his heels and said, “It’s all right- I know who it was.”  Joe turned to me and said, “What do you mean?” “It was Les,  “I answered. My father, a former college and professional football player, had owned a family sports tavern in Grand Island,  Nebraska.

His work uniform was always a short-sleeved white skirt and dark trousers. A tall man at six  feet, four inches, he often walked with his  head bent  forward-more a habit of dealing with his bifocals than his height.

I walked  into the kitchen and looked. including upward toward the ceiling and softly whispered, “I’m glad you’re here watching  over me and taking care of us.  I know we  didn’t always see  eye-to-eye, but I always knew you loved  me and hope  you knew how much I loved you-we just have trouble saying the words to each other. I’m happy to see you.”

I then return to my bedtime preparations. The day  ended with special thoughts of my father, Les McDonald, who had died of a heart attack on July 26,  1971, some  twenty-five years earlier.

I am happy,  comforted, and secure in my knowledge that my father is watching  over our  family. As in life, he remains a man who does not speak  the words  of love,  but he bestowed a  rare gift to me of glimpsing him for  a moment, thus reinforcing that he and  mother  are always close at hand,  watching over us and  guiding us through life.

The knowledge that my father was watching over me  gave me  untold strength during painful times when I felt very alone in my battle.

Linda McDonald Williams

Knightdale, North Carolina

January 2000

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