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