My father was a brilliant doctor, but did he care for my sister and me as much as his patients?

My sister Joy was fighting her final battle against cancer. I wanted Joy to go into a hospice, but she didn't want to leave her home. I couldn't be with her constantly. God, who will watch over her?Joy and I had come from a medical family.

Mom was a nurse. Dad was a small-town general practitioner. His concern for his patients was legendary; he often made house calls without being summoned. Sometimes Joy and I had felt overlooked, longing for the attention he seemed to reserve for his patients.

But no matter how busy he had been all week, Dad stood on the basement stairs every Sunday morning, polishing his shoes for church.I called Dr. Croghan, Joy's radiologist, hoping she could convince Joy to move into a hospice. “Your father called also,” she said.

“He wants Joy to come live with him when we've done all we can medically…” Her beeper went off and the doctor was abruptly called away before I could correct her.Three days later Joy died at home. I called Dr. Croghan to thank her for all she'd done.

Then I mentioned the phone call. “It had to be someone else,” I said.“He distinctly said he was Joy's father,” Dr. Croghan insisted. “He talked about her case and understood all the medical details; as if he were a doctor too.”

And then I knew God had provided the reassurance I needed. Dad died nearly 30 years ago, but he still watched over his children.