When I learned, last October, that my 78-year-old dad’s stomach discomfort was end-stage cancer from which he would not recover, I drove myself to a nearby beach. I watched shoreline birds soar over the waves, prayed for courage, cried, and set some goals. To fortify my plans, I wrote them down:

Teach the kids how to face the death of their beloved granddad with grace, dignity, and courage.

Put my faith into practical action: be patient and kind to people around me experiencing extreme stress from our circumstances and express appreciation to health care workers.

Find ways to harness God’s strength and be willing to gently speak of my faith when the moments seemed right.

Walk with Dad, down this final road, as far as I could go and finish strong.

Pastor Rick Warren, author of the mega-bestseller The Purpose-Driven Life, explains that moments like these can be viewed as both tests and opportunities. When I gave voice to this belief near the end of Dad’s life to gathered family members, there was slight resistance to the idea from a couple of people present that day. But I understood that we each travel differing spiritual roads and the brief exchange only served to rally me. It was my time to be the woman God had been molding for 47 years.

And so I did all I knew to do to finish strong. I sat in the hospital room until attendants removed Dad’s body. I thanked the hospital staff and Hospice volunteers for their loving care. I joined the small contingency at the funeral home to make the final arrangements. I helped plan his memorial service, wrote his obituary, and prepared remarks which my husband bravely delivered on our family’s behalf. I felt weary and jittery much of the time. It was exhausting to keep my tears at bay when I needed to communicate with strength. But I chose secluded locations and times to cry so I would not over-burden those around me.

I did none of these tasks perfectly, but I did them to the best of my ability and refused to allow my own sorrow to resemble impatience or anger or irritability. I believed God had placed the tools to cope into my hands and it was time I made good use of those tools.

It is these memories that I carry with me as I live without the earthly presence of my dad. It’s been 10 months since I gently slid my hand into his. His hands had always been warm and loving to me. They were the hands that rubbed my feet willingly and guided me in this life, not perfectly but with great intention. So it was his hand that I chose to touch one last time in that hospital room. This memory connects me to him, even today.

While Dad’s physical touch is unavailable, God makes His own presence clear and He addresses my concerns through my dreams. This has been a surprising series of events, for I am known to rarely remember my dreams. Yet two in recent months have directly addressed my worries and the power of love has been dramatically demonstrated in this surprising manner.

In the first dream I’m dressed in formal attire and standing beside a hotel bed, waiting for my dad to get ready. It was not unusual for us to wait for Dad, so it was apparent the others gathered for this big yet unidentified event had moved into the hallway while I remained in the room. When Dad appears from the bathroom, looking handsome and healthy in a formal suit, I remind myself in this dream that he has died and I should soak in this vision of vitality and love.

“You look great!” Dad says to me.

“So do you, Dad!” I reply.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

I tell him I am, yet when we walk toward each other I awaken to my life here, my sleeping husband beside me. God promises Christians who are willing to give public testimony of their belief in Jesus Christ that He will prepare a room and a celebration in heaven for them. I believe God assured me that morning that He celebrated my dad’s arrival into heaven. This comfort is immeasurable and treasured.

In the second dream I’m driving on a busy highway but I can’t open my eyes. I can’t see a thing, yet I’m successfully maneuvering through the traffic with not so much as a near miss. I’m worried and I call out to God, “Open my eyes, Lord. I’ve got to see where I’m going!”

Yet without sight or knowledge, I’m moving along the road. This new road without my precious dad. This road filled with God’s love, God’s presence, God’s guidance.