I WAS IN SOUTH CAROLINA,

having made the trip in a 20-year-old van with just my dog for company, and crying for just about all 1,000 miles of the drive. I had learned only a day or two before that my beloved brother, Billy, had been killed. One of his friends had driven me to a store to get oil for the van. As I came out of the store, I was approached by an older woman. She walked up to me and enveloped me in the tightest hug.

“I read about your brother in the paper,” she said. “I prayed for him, and I’m going to pray for you.” I don’t know who she was—or how she knew who I was—but this stranger sensed my grief and cared enough to reach out to me. I think of her often. I remember her face and the kindness in her eyes. Sometimes I wonder whether she was an angel. Yes, she definitely was.