It had been a year since my daughter had died—my grief still so fresh. I wondered if I’d ever feel better…

My husband talked me into accompanying him on a business trip to Los Angeles, but it was the last thing I wanted to do. While he met with clients, I climbed a steep hill to a bluff overlooking the ocean. Maybe the higher I go, the better God will hear me.

"Lord, how could this happen?" I shouted when I reached the crest. "Will I ever feel better?" Only the distant surge and sweep of the ocean responded. Walking back down, I felt the weight of my grief grow with every step.

It had been almost a year since my daughter Melody died from melanoma at age 24. But the pain was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. There were so many things I missed about her.

When Melody was at college she always called to let me know how she was doing. "Mom, I’m sitting here studying and I have the afghan you made for me." I’d spent the whole summer before her freshman year knitting it.

"I feel so close to you when I’m wrapped up in it." That was Melody; always making a point to tell others how much she cared about them. I missed that about her and the optimism and faith she’d had right to the last.

Melody became a comfort to meduring the two years she battled the disease. That was the most remarkable thing. When we got home from the business trip the screen door was ajar. A package bearing no return address was wedged inside.

Curious, I picked up the box, carried it in and tore it open. As I peeled away layers of tissue paper, my fingers touched something familiar. The afghan! The one I’d made for Melody. The one she had always said made her feel warm and safe.

Immediately I called my son-in-law to thank him. He was puzzled. He’d taken the afghan to the cleaners a while back and forgotten about it. "I didn’t send it," he said. I never found out who sent the afghan.

But that day, as I wrapped myself in its soft warmth, I said, "Thank You, Lord, for making me feel close to you again."