An Unexpected Message of Love

After waiting four months to have my leaking and crumbling roof replaced, the crew had finally arrived. Too many jobs, building material delays, and bad weather led to the long wait, but here they were, ready to get to work.

On the second day, as the workers took a break from hammering and banging, I joined them to survey their progress. The crew consisted of three men working on the roof and one working on the ground. As I talked with him, he told me his job was cutting wooden boards and preparing the metal sheets, which were then installed by the other guys. He said, “I am mostly down here but also work up on the roof. As a matter of fact, I was up there this morning and almost slipped,” explaining there had been a slick, wet spot he had not seen. It was scary knowing he had almost fallen from a two-story building!

From Whom All Blessings Flow

He went on: “But guess what happened? Right after I slipped, my colleague found some writing on the metal, right there where I almost went down, which said, ‘Praise God from whom all blessings flow.’ Somebody was watching over me—can you believe that?”

I couldn’t quite make sense of what he was saying. “Writing? What kind of writing?” I asked. He said, “Somebody left a message on one of the metal panels.” He said it again: Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

As soon as I heard the words repeated, I knew who the writer was: my late husband.

A Carpenter and Builder

Tom was a carpenter and builder, a general contractor, who could build and repair anything. He had painted our roof several times over the years, but I didn’t know he had repaired it. This work must have occurred before we moved into the house 20 years ago, when it was still a rental property. But I knew of his habit to leave an inscription such as a Bible verse, line from a hymn, or a Buddhist sutra on jobsites. This one was his favorite.

Tom was wonderful and so interesting—outdoorsy and deeply spiritual. He loved to sail the Chesapeake Bay, canoe the Rappahannock River, and camp in the Shenandoah National Park. He was also a voracious reader with wide-ranging interests, from Westerns and science fiction to Emerson and the Dalai Lama. His favorite was the Bible, which he read cover to cover every year.

The worker went back to the piece of metal bearing the inscription and cut it out for me. My inner knowing was confirmed when I saw Tom’s handwriting. It was perfectly legible and well-preserved, as though it had been written yesterday. It was a precious gift as Tom had died five years ago.

During his life, Tom sent extra money to the mortgage company as often as he could. He told me, “I want the house to be paid off so that you have a home.” He completed that goal several years before his death. His note, written on our roof so many years ago, was a powerful reminder of how much he cared for me.

Tom’s death was an end to years of pain and suffering. As we had repeatedly and openly talked about dying, his passing came as a relief yet still a shock. I was as prepared as I could have been that day in the hospital. I have done a lot of grieving since then, missing him and reflecting on our years together. Seeing his inscription was a lovely and welcome reminder of what a wonderful spirit he was—and still is.