I gazed at the blank paper on my easel, listening to the birds outside my window.

Sometimes it was that moment just before I put brush to canvas that was hardest. Besides, this was an important painting, a gift for people who had helped me through one of the toughest times in my life. It had to be exactly right to show them how I felt.

I’d been diagnosed with breast cancer a few months before and it changed my whole life. There was so much to go through: consultations, surgery, radiation.

My husband, Ed, was totally supportive, but he couldn’t always stay beside me during my treatment. Even my friend Kim, a breast cancer survivor herself who called me every day, felt very far away in Florida.

I dipped my brush into a pot of water. A new bird flew over to join the others outside in song. As an avid bird-watcher I couldn’t help but admire him: a bright red cardinal.

For me, bird-watching wasn’t just a way to pass the time. Birds were God’s way of showing us the beauty in the world. Even now, when I wasn’t able to go outside, I could look out my window and see them.

It was as if He had created them so that even when life got ugly we would have something beautiful to remind us of his love.

I’ll be outside with my binoculars again soon, I promised the cardinal, watching him swoop from one branch to another. My radiation treatments were coming to an end and with them, hopefully, the end of my cancer.

I thought back to the August day I started my sessions at Mercy Medical Center. Ed had already missed so much work caring for me, he couldn’t come with me. I had no idea what to expect. A scary, cold building full of machines?

Instead I walked into a cozy waiting room with cheerful paintings on the walls and an even more cheerful receptionist behind the desk. “It’s good to see you, Jennifer,” she said. “Just have a seat right over there and I’ll call you when the team is ready.

She gave me a reassuring nod, like she knew how scared I was. That little bit of kindness, like the bright paintings on the walls, made me feel stronger.

I almost hated to leave the receptionist behind when I went to the treatment room, but it turned out the technicians who worked my machines were just as comforting. “Just watch—you’ll miss us when your six weeks are up!” one of them joked as she adjusted the dials.

That first day I couldn’t imagine missing anything about the place, but as my final treatment approached, I realized it was true.

Oh, I wouldn’t miss the treatments, but the people were a different story: the reception staff who knew my name and my schedule better than I did, the technicians who told jokes to put me at ease, even the cleaning staff who greeted me with a smile. Their kindness made all the difference.

A tradition at Mercy was for patients to bring something in on their last day, donuts or cookies they’d baked to celebrate. That’s why I was at my easel. I’d been painting as a hobby for a couple of years. But what should I paint for the staff at Mercy?

I closed my eyes and thought. The cardinal chirped, as if offering a suggestion. That’s it! I opened my eyes and thanked my bright red muse. I would paint a bird! Something beautiful for people to focus on.

Ed thought that sounded like a great idea. “If anyone knows the beauty of birds, it’s you,” Ed said.

My painting was finished a few days later: a cardinal sitting in a pine tree. But something was missing. I mixed some paint and added a pink ribbon—the international symbol of breast cancer awareness—curling out of the bird’s beak.

I called the painting Strength because that’s exactly what the people at Mercy gave me when I needed it.

The staff was thrilled with my gift. The patients liked it too. I was just happy to give something back to people who had helped me so much. “But they’re not the only ones I want to thank,” I said to Ed when I got home. “What about Dr. Sweitzer? I couldn’t have asked for a better surgeon.”

“Why don’t you paint him a bird too?” he said. “Maybe a different kind.”

The next day I was back at my easel, wondering what bird to choose. When two bluebirds landed on the tree outside my window, I had my answer. I named my bluebird painting Courage, something a surgeon needs as much as his patients.

Next on my list was my friend Kim. What would I have done without her daily phone calls? For Kim I chose a mockingbird sitting on a bougainvillea, just like the ones she would see at home in Florida. The mockingbird was for Friendship. I painted a goldfinch for my friends at the Cancer Care Center at Mercy Medical, and called it Hope.

Finally, I painted a cedar waxwing. Those graceful birds had always been a favorite of mine, so they seemed the perfect tribute to the one I leaned on most throughout my illness: God. I called that picture Faith and hung it at home for Ed and me.

One day I got a call from a stranger. “I saw your painting at the Mercy Medical Center. Is there any way I could get a copy? It’s beautiful!”

“I’m not sure…” I said. I didn’t know how to go about such things. But more calls came, all people asking for prints of the painting. I’d never expected this.

Ed got right on it. He arranged for all my paintings to be available for anyone who wanted them. We gave out plenty.

By Christmas I was officially cancer-free. I couldn’t have asked for a better gift than that, but Ed said he had something special for me. “Come and see,” he said, turning on the computer. He typed in an address on the internet.

I gasped as my birds popped up on the screen. Ed had designed a whole website for them. There was even a picture of me sketching! “People can buy the paintings as note cards or prints,” he explained, clicking me around the site.

Best of all, a portion of every sale was donated to cancer research and to a fund that helped women in treatment.

I’m back to bird-watching outside with my binoculars these days. Each bird I see still feels like a gift. A gift that reminds me of the beauty in God’s world. Beauty that surrounds us even when we’re dealing with ugly things like cancer.

No painting can compare, but if a picture of mine can give someone strength, courage or hope when she needs it most, that’s what I’d call art.

Download your FREE ebook, Angel Sightings: 7 Inspirational Stories About Heavenly Angels and Everyday Angels on Earth

I come from a family of rescuers. My two sons are officers in the military—one in the Army, the other in the Coast Guard. They come to the aid of those in need every day. You could say it’s in their DNA. My Dad was a “lifer.” He served first in the Navy during World War II, and then the Coast Guard, where he spent the remainder of his military career conducting dangerous air search and rescue missions for lost mariners. But the most important rescue mission was one that my family, more than 60 years later, still calls a miracle.

It happened in December of 1954, a week before Christmas. I was five years old. My sister, Joanne, was eight, and my brother, Jim, was two. Our home was in full holiday mode. The tall fir tree was trimmed to perfection. The aroma of baking filled the house. Preparation for our annual Italian Christmas Eve tradition, the Feast of the Seven Fishes, was underway. It would be our first Christmas in our new home in Canada, and excitement was in the air.

A few months earlier, Dad had been transferred from Massachusetts to a U.S. Naval base in Argentina, a town off the southern coast of Newfoundland. He worked four days on base. We kids were always in anticipation of his arrival home.

We lived a ferry ride away from the base, in a two-story, boxy white house in the fishing village of Placentia. It was quite a departure from the world we were accustomed to— cold, gray and barren. The winters were brutal even by New England standards. Mom reassured us that all was well and that we were on a special adventure. She managed to make our little house feel warm and welcoming, even for the other military families too. That Christmas, though, Dad was on duty. We weren’t sure he’d make it home in time to celebrate with us.

My dad never talked about his missions in front of us—maybe he didn’t want to frighten us. He was a hydraulic specialist and aerial navigator, often flying in the worst of conditions. Even as kids, we knew his work was dangerous, especially in the winter months, though Mom was good at hiding her concerns.

Snow fell three days before Christmas, covering the barren ground with a lovely white carpet. The temperature was just cold enough to freeze all the nearby ponds. School had let out early that day, and Joanne was home by noon. She told Mom that all her friends from school were going ice-skating. She wished she had some skates, so she could join them. At those words, Mom pulled a present from under the tree and handed it to my sister. An early Christmas gift— skates! Joanne wasted no time. “Can I go skating now?” she asked excitedly. “Yes,” Mom said, “but be careful and be home for supper.”

Bundled in her heavy winter coat, hat and mittens, Joanne flew out the door. She headed toward a popular skating pond close by, where her friends had already gathered to spend the afternoon. It was a perfect day for skating, chilly and clear. The sun reflected off the ice like diamonds. Joanne worked hard to steady herself on the skates. Undaunted by her multiple tumbles, she finally made it from one side of the pond to the other. She was having so much fun mastering her new skill that she lost track of time, not realizing that all her friends had gone home. It was getting dark, and Joanne knew she had better head back fast or she’d be in trouble. She reached a remote part of the pond, not noticing the fissures in the ice until it was too late. Then— CRACK! The ice gave way. Joanne’s tiny feet slid out from under her and she plunged into the water.

Surrounded by melting ice, she had nothing to grab. “Help!” she screamed. Her mouth filled with water. Again she tried calling out. It was no use. The pond was deserted. Pure panic set in as the weight of her skates pulled her deeper and deeper. Her body trembled uncontrollably, the freezing water seeping into her heavy coat and the pores of her skin. And then she was gone.

Joanne doesn’t recall how long she was underwater. But suddenly she felt something pulling her out of the icy depths. As she would later describe it, “a great big hand gripped at the back of my coat.” The next thing Joanne knew, she was sitting on the ground by the road that led back home.

She was still wearing her skates. But her boots stood neatly beside her, as if they’d been carefully placed there. She hurriedly changed into them, scarcely able to comprehend what had just happened. Her coat was as dry as a bone. So were her ice skates. Had she imagined falling into the water? Her mittens told the truth, though, as the icy pond water dripped from them. The dark walk home would have been threatening any other time. But that night, it was as if a warmth were surrounding and guiding Joanne.

Mom questioned Joanne as she came in the door, more grateful than cross. “Where on earth have you been?” she said.

“Sorry, Mom, lost track of time,” Joanne said. She took off her coat and scrambled to the dinner table, as if everything were fine. She was torn between sharing her near-drowning and rescue or keeping quiet. What if no one believed her?

The next two days passed by in a blur of holiday activities. The long-awaited Christmas Eve celebration finally arrived. We were all bundles of nerves that afternoon, not knowing if Dad would walk through the door. As we kept vigil by the window, we had one eye on the lookout for him and the other on the gifts. Around five o’clock, we got the best gift of all. Dad walked through the door accompanied by two members of his crew, who would’ve been alone that night had Dad not insisted they join us.

We all gathered around the dinner table as Mom served each of the seven courses. Dad beamed, clearly happy to be home with his family. After dinner, we settled in the living room. Joanne and I sat on Dad’s lap, and he began to tell us an extraordinary story.

“A couple of days ago,” he said, “we were called out to rescue the crew of a Russian ship that was taking on water in the middle of the ocean.”

The room drew to a hush. We’d rarely ever heard him say more than a few sentences about his duties. We were all fascinated.

“Their ship was four hours north of us,” he said, “and it was storming something fierce. We knew the vessel was sinking and that time was of the essence. By the time our plane got to the general vicinity, though, a heavy fog had settled over the sea, making it impossible for us to see anything below.”

The plane’s fuel was getting low, and Dad knew that if they didn’t see the sailors soon, they’d have to go back or risk being in trouble too.

“We have to turn around,” the pilot told Dad with some urgency.

“We’re their only hope,” Dad said. “Let’s give it a few more minutes.”

“Five more minutes,” said the pilot. “But then we’ll have no choice but to turn back.”

Dad paused in his story. “Just as we were about to turn back,” he said, “I asked the Lord to please help us find the sailors. In that moment, it was as if a curtain were being suddenly drawn back. The fog lifted. We could see several men on the ship’s bow, waving flags. The pilot flew the plane overhead, and I lowered the harnesses. As each man ascended to the plane, I reached down and pulled him to safety. Just as the last man climbed aboard, the vessel sank.”

I stared at Dad’s strong hands, picturing him reaching out for those men, bringing them to safety. The strength and courage it must’ve taken took my breath away. Just then, Joanne said in a soft, almost inaudible voice, “I had a miracle too, Daddy.”

She told the room how another pair of powerful hands, just like Dad’s, had plucked her from those icy waters. Hugs and kisses followed.

Was there a connection between Dad’s rescue of those sailors that night and the rescue of his own little girl? Perhaps we’ll never know for sure. But all these years later, when I sit to pray for my sons, inspired into service by their grandfather, I’m not afraid. For I know that whatever they face, they are never really alone. Protected, always, by a father’s hands.

Judy Zwirblis is the author of Treasured Tales of Homeschool: An Inspiration for Parents.

Christmas just isn’t Christmas without sharing a giant chocolate Hershey bar with Mom, I thought wistfully, looking at the display of bars on sale at the grocery store one cold December day.

It’s not your usual holiday tradition, but it was for me. I’m not sure how it started, but every year for as long as I could remember, as a way to welcome in the holiday, Mom and I would run to the store to buy a giant milk chocolate Hershey bar. We’d keep it in the refrigerator at home and would break off little pieces in the days before Christmas, sometimes even dipping them in peanut butter. It was a guilty pleasure we loved sharing together.

Mom had passed away just a couple of months earlier. No, no chocolate bar this year, I thought. Not without Mom to share it. I turned away from the display of chocolate and headed to the checkout line to pay for my groceries.

As I pushed my cart toward my car, I kept thinking about that Hershey bar. Should I go back in and get one? No, I shouldn’t eat all that chocolate myself.

I put the groceries in the car, then climbed in and closed the door. I turned the car on and let it idle for a minute, waiting for it to warm up. Lord, I sure wish I could feel Mom close by this Christmas season, I prayed. Let her know I love her and that I hope to see her again someday.

I put my car into gear and looked out the rearview mirror, ready to back out of the parking spot. Something shined brightly from the baby seat of a grocery cart in the spot across from me. Did someone leave their purse? I put the car in park and scanned the lot to see if anyone was around. No one. I walked over to see what was in the cart.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and laughed out loud. There sat a giant Hershey bar, just like the ones Mom and I always shared!

For Mother’s Day, our tiny church had helped me prepare something special. “A gift to celebrate the mothers in the congregation,” I explained to the small but full house of worshippers. I said a silent prayer we had enough with the 10 baskets we’d filled up with a porcelain dove, Bible verse, lotions and perfume. “Would the moms come to the altar, please?”

One by one, women rose and made their way up to me. I nervously counted heads. One, two, three… Eleven? My heart dropped. Maybe I miscounted. I hadn’t. Eleven mothers, ten gifts! “Lord,” I whispered, “we need a Mother’s Day miracle.”

I prayed a blessing over the group, but I felt awful. There’s nothing to be done, I thought as I picked up the first basket to hand it out. Someone’s going to be disappointed. I hugged each woman as I made my way down the line. “Happy Mother’s Day, Pat. Happy Mother’s Day, Rita.” With four women left, I checked the remaining baskets. Three gift packages. I handed over the next one. Two women left. I reached down to pick up the last basket—but wait! There wasn’t one gift basket but two! I presented the last mother with the gift basket that must have been hastily put together by an angel. I suppose the Lord never forgets a mother.

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For the third time that morning, I opened the refrigerator. I don’t know what I was expecting to find inside. Cheez Whiz, Kool-Aid and Jell-O pudding, like other kids had? Not in my house.

We had orange blocks of cheese and milk made from powder, all with “U.S. Government” stamped on the label, reminding us who the food really belonged to.

Not us. Nothing was yours unless you paid for it, and there was very little my family could afford.

“Rosemary, close the door,” my mother said. “You’re wasting energy.”

I sighed and shut the door. Mom never worried about all the things we didn’t have. “The Lord will provide” was her answer to everything. Each time we lost another house, another chance in another town, she had faith God would make everything all right.

“Yeah, right,” I grumbled, plopping myself down at the table. I didn’t trust God to provide anything here in Ashtabula, Ohio, any more than he’d provided anywhere else. At 9 years old, I’d learned not to trust anyone. I didn’t know how Mom could, either.

Didn’t she remember how the man who offered to fix our pipes stole from her? Or how the pipes broke again a week later? Hadn’t my father left her with eight kids to take care of on her own? How could she trust God when everyone let us down?

My angry thoughts were interrupted by gravel spraying outside. There was a screech of brakes and a backfire that echoed like a rifle shot. I ran to the window to see who’d made such an entrance.

Out front was the sorriest milk truck I’d ever seen, shuddering and wheezing before rattling to a final stop. I wondered if it had just died in front of our house, unable to make the last few feet to the scrap yard up the street. The faded red letters on the side read Joe Torma—Your Milkman.

The truck door slid open and out stepped what looked like a giant in big black boots and a green stained mechanic’s jumpsuit too short for his legs. He wore thick glasses and a cap that looked like he lived, breathed and went fishing in it. He took it off and smoothed his silver hair flat against his forehead.

“Hey, Et? You there?” the man called.

“You know him?” I asked.

“He’s the church janitor,” Mom said. “Mrs. McCarthy introduced me. Come out and meet him. And don’t stare.”

Don’t stare? That wasn’t going to be easy. Joe Torma seemed to bend down right out of the sky to shake my hand. His hand was big as a baseball glove and felt just as leathery. Even more stunning, he was missing some fingers! “Well, who do we have here?” he said. “Don’t be shy, young lady. I’m Joe.”

He stuck his glasses in his pocket, revealing blue eyes that almost sparkled in the sun, and flapped my arm up and down hard.

“Glorious day, isn’t it, Et?” Joe said, grinning. He’d lost a few teeth as well. “Got a busy schedule today, but I wanted to drop off some milk for your family.”

Mom started to protest, but Joe stopped her cold. “Can’t sell it after it expires anyway, but it’s still good. My family has all we need.” He dropped a hand on my shoulder. I could feel the knuckles where his fingers stopped and wondered how he’d lost them. War wound? Shark attack? Chain saw accident? Anything was possible with a man like this! “You look like a strong girl,” he said. “Can you give me a hand?”

I followed him into the truck without a word. The inside was even more dilapidated than the outside. The backseat looked to be made entirely of electrical tape. Clothespins hung on a white string inside the front window, holding notes Joe had written to himself, receipts, reminders, prayers. “Yep,” Joe said. “The whole truck’s held together by clothespins.” He wasn’t kidding.

Joe pulled two crates of milk bottles from the back of the truck and stacked them at my feet. “Lookie here,” said Joe. “Got some sour cream, too. Your mom could use that, no?” He pushed another crate toward me. “And cottage cheese—good for your growing bones.”

I looked warily at the crates. I wasn’t going to fall for this. Joe might say these things were a gift, but nothing came for free. Trusting people to help just meant you’d be let down and humiliated when the time came to pay up. Like the time my whole class went to a Girl Scout Brownie party. My teacher assured me everyone was invited, but when I put on my coat she stopped me at the door. “Your family didn’t pay,” she said in front of everyone. “You can’t go.”

Or the time in Pennsylvania when Mom thought she found a good school for all us kids to go to on scholarship, until the principal called me into his office one morning to demand tuition. “I’m tired of you people thinking this is a free ride,” he snapped. I wanted to sink into the floor. Free ride, I thought. Yeah, right. If there was one thing I knew, it was that nothing came for free.

Joe pushed the crates closer. Cottage cheese, ricotta, yogurt and sour cream. “Go on,” he said. “I’ve got all I need already.”

I picked up a crate. Something about Joe Torma made me trust him.

Joe stopped by at least once a week after that. Sometimes he brought day-old doughnuts or bread from the local pastry shop, or fruits and vegetables from Kroger’s. Even though Joe had next to nothing himself, he saw everyone around him as generous and good—and he had a way of inspiring them to live up to his expectations.

When somebody got a new stove, Joe suggested they give the old one to us, like it was only natural. “They have all they need,” he explained to me as he carried it into our kitchen. “They’re glad to share what they don’t.” Joe didn’t make me feel ashamed to accept what he brought us, or worried he was going to demand something in return we couldn’t give. Joe never let me down.

Now when I went to our refrigerator, I felt rich. The bread was smudged with powder from the bakery’s leftover jelly doughnuts. We still didn’t have Kool-Aid or Jell-O pudding. But what we had was ours, no strings attached. I learned to trust Joe and to let other people help us. Maybe I could learn to trust God as well. Maybe God gave me Joe for that reason.

We lived in Ohio a year before we lost our lease. But as we drove away, I wasn’t thinking about what I’d lost. I was thinking how I could give to others, and teach them the lesson Joe Torma taught me. That God would provide, through people like Joe. And maybe, someday, through people like me.