Last year, after my husband’s passing, the grief was unbearable. To escape the pain, I traveled back to China for a visit. On a whim, I agreed to visit a new friend—someone I had never met before. She didn’t know my husband or his name.
When I entered the guest room, a small device on the nightstand startled me: it was marked with two letters: “JH,” my husband’s initials.
I froze. JH? Here? In this unfamiliar space halfway across the world?
I asked my friend, “What’s that stuff in the guest room?”
She looked puzzled and went to check. “Oh, that? A cell phone stand,” she said casually. “My sister stayed here once. Maybe she left it? I honestly have no idea.”
I took a photo and sent it to my daughter. “Look at this. So weird.”
She replied, “Mom, God is helping you. JH is in the room with you.”
That night, I quietly cried hard in bed.
What were the odds that a Chinese person would have a stand marked with the English letters “JH” instead of Chinese characters?
What were the odds that this stand was left in the guest room I stayed in?
Unless God arranged it.
God sent the presence of my husband through something as simple as that small cell stand, even before I knew I would visit that new friend and stay in that room.
Today, I came across this photo on my phone.
This feels like a mini-miracle. It reminds me that I’m not forgotten—especially at the very moment I feel like I am.