I hope that someday soon you’ll come to the tea my husband, Dave, and I serve in the Victorian-style house we built near the Cajon Pass in Southern California.

When you arrive you’ll be welcome to browse. Surely someone will notice the unusual frame around photo of a handsome young man with twinkling eyes, black hair and a dashing mustache. The young man is my only child, Bill. The frame is a Victorian-era mourning frame. The crosses craved into the wood are appropriate because of Bill’s faith; the anchors because he was in the Navy. Bill died five years ago during Operation Desert Storm, when he was 28 years old.

Bill and I were not only son and mother, we were best friends. Perhaps because his father left us early on, we relied on each other a lot. We also had fun. Bill had a sharp sense of humor, and I loved his jokes. Sometimes he made me burst out laughing with just a look. He was also protective of me. When I had trouble getting out of a snowy driveway while we were living in Michigan, mm y little boy looked at me seriously and vowed, “When I grow up, Mom, I’ll get you snow tires.”

Snow tires weren’t necessary when we moved to California, where I met and married a wonderful widower, Dave Kincaid. Bill loved him, and the three of us became a team. Life was suddenly the way I had always dreamed it could be.

My son had a brilliant mind and enjoyed working with electronics. The Navy provided him with the perfect career. Although what he was doing was often top secret and he could tell us little, he seemed to enjoy his work. He was based in San Diego, two hours away, and many times the phone rang at our home in Apple Valley, with Bill saying, “Mom, it’s me. I’m coming home on leave and brining a buddy!” That same afternoon, he would stick his head into my vintage-clothing store. “Hi Mom, This is my friend Joe. We’ll see you at home for supper!”

In the summer of 1990, he re-enlisted. The Persian Gulf conflict was heating up. Bill spent the week before he left finishing all the projects he had started around the house. For some reason, he made sure his papers were in order, and said a special good-bye to his girlfriend.

At midnight on the eve of his leaving, I found him still working on a new electric-eye light over the garage. “Bill, don’t worry about it,” I said. “You’ll be back in no time.” But he insisted on installing it for me.

He called every Sunday, and things always sounded fine. So I thought nothing was strange that August Friday when I looked through the picture window as a van pulled up in front of the house. A repairman, probably, I thought.

The van doors opened and several men got out, Navy men: an officer, a chaplain and an enlisted man in his dress whites- there’s only one reason that a configuration of Navy personnel comes to your house.

I panicked. I started pacing up and down the hallway, shouting, “Oh no! No, no! Dave wasn’t home; I felt so alone.

The doorbell rang. Still I paced, somehow thinking that if I didn’t answer, it wouldn’t be true.

When I heard the knocks, I knew I had to go. I opened the door and said to the solemn-faced officer, “don’t you tell me what you’re going to tell me!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am”, He relied, “I have to.” Bill was dead. My only son was gone.

As an officer was telling me what details he could, a strange thing happened. I felt a warm pressure, like someone laying a hand on my shoulder. And from behind me, I heard the words; “He’s all right”. An unexpected calm descended and carried me through the next few days and the funeral.

There comes a time after a personal tragedy that’s especially hard: After all the fuss, everyone else’s life goes back to normal, yet yours remains shattered. The devastating news of my son’s death kept coming back to me in different ways, each one as if I were hearing it for the first time.

As brilliant as Bill was, he had an absent-minded habit of losing his sunglasses. When the Navy returned his personal effects-a shiny new pair of sunglasses on top- I wanted to scream. Now I had Bill’s sunglasses, but I didn’t have Bill.

I closed my store in Apple Valley. I put my antiques and clothing collecting into storage. Time stretched on unbearably. Even my husband could not comfort me. Nothing mattered anymore.

One day I decided to take a drive, just to get out. “Use the Nissan,” Dave said. “I had new tires put on.” I got in the car and took off alone.

As I drove, I turned to God in anguish, “Why?” I asked. “What plan of yours is so important that you had to take my only child?” I wondered if God cared that my heart was broken, my life in ruins. Then as I approached the Cajon Pass, there was a loud pop. One of the tires had blown.

I managed to steer the car off the road. Traffic was heavy; I was lucky I hadn’t caused an accident. I went to a call box and asked the operator to contact my husband. Then I walked back to the car for a long wait. One thought was in my mind; if Bill were here, he would help me. If Bill were here… I started to cry.

“Excuse me!” I heard a voice say and I wiped away my tears. Across a barbed wire fence was a wide-open bumpy field. There was a small car, and in front of it a young man waved at me. He looked a lot like Bill.

“Can I help you?” he asked as he hopped the fence easily. “I didn’t want to startle you.”

I looked at his car strangely placed in the field. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?

“You need help,” he said, inspecting the blown tire. “Let me take care of this.”

“Where are you from?” I asked. “Around here.” “I could have sworn I knew everyone.” Especially someone, who reminds me so much of Bill, I thought.

The young man took the lug nuts off the tire and removed it. “I’m going to have to get this patched,” he said. “There’s a garage over the hill. It won’t take long.”

He put his sunglasses on the hood next to me. “So you know I’ll be back.” He winked and hopped across the fence to his car. As he drove into the distance, I wondered how his small car could handle the rough field.

Before long, he was back. “You sure can hop a fence,” I said. He flashed a big smile, and as he put on the patched tire, we talked. I wound up telling him about Bill’s death, and how hard it was to get through.

“Yeah, I know,” he said gently, “It’s rough”. The young man finished tightening the nuts, looked up at me, and said with authority, “Remember, your son is fine.” Instantly I was bathed with the same sort of peace as the time I had felt the hand on my shoulder and hear the whispered words, “He’s all right.” I felt as though I had been given a gift.

When Dave arrived, I introduced the two men. They shook hands, and then Dave gave me a bear hug. For a split second I buried my face in his neck. We both turned to wave good-bye to the young man.

But, to our amazement we found he wasn’t on either side of the fence. There was no car in the field.

Dave and I looked into each other’s eyes, both of us trying to take in what had happened. “Bill’s okay,” I said, breaking our silence. “He’s in Heaven, and he’s fine.”

Neither of us had any doubt who the mysterious young man was. When we returned to the dealership where Dave had bought the tires, the manager shook his head in confusion. “There’s no reason this tire should have blown”, he said. “I don’t get it.” We did.

The heavenly reassurance didn’t take away the ached of not having Bill here on earth, but the sense of peace, of being loved and cared for, stayed with me. I realized I had to make a conscious decision to get past my grief and to go on with life. And I knew which choice God, and Bill would want me to make.

Shortly thereafter, Dave and I bought property near the Cajon Pass and build our house, along with a workshop for the hats I make, and a small “museum” for the antiques and vintage clothing we can’t fit in the house. And I began giving teas, for a dozen or so people at a time. I dress in Victorian clothing, with a neat Gibson girl hairdo, to entertain my guests. It’s fun to follow the customs as if we’re actually having tea one hundred years ago.

When my guests ask about Bill, I tell my story. I’ll never forget one young woman who came with her mother. They made it clear that they had come only to see the antiques; they sat off by themselves. But as I was explaining about the mourning frame, I saw the young woman, Maureen, listening intently. About a month later, a beautiful woman called out to me when I was downtown. “Hello, Mrs. Kincaid!” she said. “Do you remember me?”

“Maureen?” I asked, incredulous. “I have to thank you,” she said, “and explain. Not long before the tea, my fiancée died. I thought I would never accept it. But when I considered what you said-that we have to make a conscious decision- I realized that if you could do it, I could too!”

God had sent his angel not only to show me he cared, but so I could, in turn show others I understood, and cared. That seems to be the angel’s message: God loves. Pass it on.

(Written by Barbara Kincaid) From: Chicken Soup; for the Christian Soul.