The day after Dad passed on to his heavenly home, I decided to indulge in a much-needed pedicure in preparation for the funeral service. It was the same nail place I had been to dozens of times before. Usually, they either have the TV on or their favorite traditional music playing in the background. As I was about to begin writing Dad’s eulogy, the soft, familiar music that has been playing overhead abruptly stopped – and out of the blue, there it was: the unmistakable sound of Chet Atkins, right there in the middle of a Vietnamese nail parlor. Chills ran over my body. I knew it was Dad.
I couldn’t contain my joyful tears. The sweet, unassuming pedicurist misunderstood my crying. “You don’t like the pedicure?”
“No, no. I do! It’s just…my dad. I feel my dad!”
Even though she did not understand my exact English, I could tell she was in tune with my emotions. She kindly asked her co-worker to translate. Both workers agreed that they were completely unfamiliar with that particular song, and they began crying along with me, knowing how special that moment was. Immediately after leaving the nail salon, I called Mom in disbelief, sharing with her every little detail of what I knew was Dad’s sign from heaven. Our tears of joy were laced with grief, but one thing was certain: Dad had creatively kept his end of the deal.
To this day, I continue to thank God for the gift of music. It was Dad’s language of love, and it will forever have room in my heart.