My father was losing his battle to colon cancer; we all said our goodbyes, cried countless tears, and took turns sitting by his side. As we rolled into the second week of watching my strong, stubborn dad hold on, the hospice team suggested that maybe he needed some time alone. Perhaps he needed some peace and quiet to move on from this life.

With this suggestion made, my sisters, Mom, and I divided our attention and attempted to give him some space. Mom went to the back room to wrap gifts (because, of course, it was the week before Christmas), one sister went to the office to get some work done, my other sister tried to take a nap in the guest room, and I headed home to check on Hubby and the kids.

After a couple of hours, I verified that my house was still standing and my family was doing okay, so I headed back to Mom and Dad’s. When I arrived at the front door, there was a bird just sitting there like a tiny, feathered, slightly-dazed sentry.

The bird didn’t move as I approached, but I could tell it was still alive. After passing the bird’s glassy-eyed station, I stepped inside and announced its stupified presence on the stoop.

My sister, who had returned to Dad’s bedside, replied, “Yeah, we thought it was Dad’s angel coming to get him, but it couldn’t get through the door.”