A while back, I had a tiny snippet of a dream in which my dearly departed sister-in-law, Sandra Adams Leatherwood, appeared. She was young—maybe around 35 or so—and we were in the back garden of a house where she lived, though it wasn’t any house I recognized. She and I had been talking and laughing, and I was thinking to myself how rosy her complexion was when, suddenly, she jumped up, grabbed two or three basil leaves from a nearby plant, and sprinted across the yard to the back door. “I need to put these in my soup,” she called, and then disappeared through the kitchen door.

The scene shifted and I was off into another dream at that point; however, that image of Sandra—with healthy pink cheeks and so much energy that she effortlessly dashed across the lawn to her back door—was a welcome sight. There was the person I had known almost all of my life: the elementary school Camp Fire girl, the middle school dancer, the high school swimmer, the nurse, the mother of three daughters, the wife and helpmate to my brother George. Gone was any vestige of cancer, and in its place was a happy, peaceful vibrancy that radiated from every cell in her body.

She was beautiful, shimmering with life.

I expect I got just a tiny glimpse of Sandra in heaven.

May light perpetual continue to shine upon your soul, sweet Sandra. Come see me again anytime.