My sister Linda and I hurriedly walked down the sidewalks of Provo, Utah on a blustery afternoon in May, looking for a place to grab a quick bite to eat.  We were in town to be with Dad who was currently in the ICU at Utah Valley Regional Medical Center following a fall that had seriously fractured his hip.   As I grabbed my iPhone out of my pocket to check for nearby restaurants, it slipped out of my hand, hitting the cement with a bang, and went skittering down the sidewalk.   Muttering to myself, I picked up my phone and looked at the scratched and dinged surface with great consternation.   Scrubbing furiously at the marks, I acknowledged that the surface would never be the same again.   Every time I looked at my phone, the marks would not only drive me crazy, but they would remind me of my infamous butter fingers.

The following morning, Linda and I woke with heavy hearts.   Dad’s prognosis was very poor and we did not know what the next 24 hours would hold.    In an attempt to give ourselves strength for the day, we decided to head out for a quick run before returning to the hospital.    I picked up my phone to set a Pandora station for my run, and was reminded again of my clumsiness when I saw the deep gouge running down the middle of the screen.   I shoved my irritation to the back of my mind, and hit the trail.

It was a beautiful morning.   Clear blue cloudless skies, the Provo River, and the craggy mountains of the Wasatch Range were all on full display.    As I ran, listening to some of Dad’s favorite gospel music, my heart was breaking as I faced the reality that Dad was slipping away.    After a mile or so, I heard the unmistakable chime of Facebook Messenger.   I grabbed my phone out of my FlipBelt as I didn’t dare ignore any messages under the circumstances.  The message was from my sister Melodie.   “Hope you are doing OK.   Wish I could be there to help.   Love you.”   The pain in my heart eased a little.  I put the phone back in my belt and resumed my run.   In just a few minutes, I heard the familiar chime again.   This time it was my sister Kathy.   “Wish I had caught an earlier flight so I could be there with you and Linda.  Thinking of you,  sis.  Love you.”    The pain in my heart eased even more as a few tears slid down my face.  And then I heard my phone again.   This time it was a text from my daughter, Tricia.    “Thinking of Grandpa this morning, Mom.   I’m so glad he has family there to surround him with love.  Take care of yourself.   Make sure you sleep and eat.  Love you so much.”     By now, my tears had hit flood stage and reading anything was a challenge.    But as I looked at my phone, something changed.    Instead of the damaged screen, all I saw was this wonderful little device that was delivering messages of love and support right when I needed it the most.   Instead of an ugly reminder of a lifetime of klutziness, I saw a technological miracle that allowed me to feel constantly supported and cherished.

We said goodbye to Dad a couple of days later.   We were so sad to lose him, but happy that he was free of pain and reunited with Mom again.   Amidst the barrage of emotions and memories, I thought once again about my experience that day on the running trail with my phone.   Why is it that so often we can’t see past our mistakes, or the mistakes of others?  Is there some miraculous potion we can take that will allow us to always fast forward to the positives?   I thought of my parents and how I never heard either of them gossip, belittle, or speak ill of anyone.   I realized there is no miraculous potion, but there is a choice.

Next time you get mired in the mud of negativity, take a minute and look beneath the surface.   9 times out of 10, there’s a message of goodness just waiting to be read.   Don’t miss it by agonizing over what ifs and do overs.   Choose to see that sunlight always does shine through.

My phone is now repaired but the lesson lives with me.    When I start getting hung up on my mistakes, or the mistakes of others, I remember the story of the dropped phone.   And it helps.