On day three, we called her Rachel Anne, a name we hadn’t considered, but it felt right.  

At four, she said Jesus taught her things and held her hand when she was frightened.

On her 16th birthday, she attended the funeral of her dear friend. It deepened her compassion and enabled the connection she’d later feel with the babies in the NICU.

On her wedding day, she honored her grandfather by placing a candle in a slice of wedding cake, calling him up, and singing Happy Birthday. He never forgot it.

After he passed, and after she became a mother, she sent me a text. “I’m more aware of things I’m experiencing and have experienced that I’d never thought of as spiritual. Especially since grandpa passed away. I feel him close when I’m scared and alone. I’ve felt him embrace me more than once . . . I know he watches over Ellie for me.”

On her 32nd birthday, she was diagnosed. Despite her love for her husband and children, she said, “If I could go back and change things, I wouldn’t.” She knew she was on her path. In a vision, she’d seen a Divine Hand guiding her bronchoscopist.

Some of her confidence stemmed from a blessing she’d sought out as a teenager. It promised “a sound mind and strong physical body . . . to be able to work and achieve all the tasks, opportunities, privileges, and blessings” that would be hers. And it declared, “You will fulfill the full measure of your creation.”

The night before the funeral, her mother walked into Rachel’s old room. She saw her daughter’s handwriting on a small poster on the ceiling. Among other things, it said, “If you’re going to die, die doing something you love.” That’s what Rachel did.

Every turn of Rachel’s life was guided, and she felt it. In retrospect, it’s clear.

That’s why her soul came to me the night before her funeral and said, “Dad, talk about miracles and gratitude.”

Rachel’s life was miracles and gratitude. She still is.