Proof The Bible Is True

The dream felt so real. I was in my childhood home, the townhouse we lived in when we first moved to Virginia. My grandfather was there too.

 

I could hear a storm brewing. Somehow I knew the house would be flooded. We needed to hurry. As we threw belongings into boxes, Grandpa and I laughed and joked around. Even with disaster looming, I wasn’t worried. Grandpa was the bravest person. He would protect me.

 

My grandpa was my best friend growing up. My hero. Larger than life. He had been an Army helicopter pilot in Vietnam, and I loved listening to his stories.

 

But the man helping me pack looked different from the Grandpa I knew. He was a lot younger, with jet-black hair and a mischievous smile—every bit the dashing heli­copter pilot I’d seen in photos from his Army days.

 

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a few more boxes to go!”

 

All of a sudden, he strode across the room and out the front door. Where was he going? Grandpa would never leave me.

 

“Grandpa!” I shouted. I ran after him, reaching for the door handle, but a hand closed around my wrist, stopping me. It was my mother.

 

“You can’t follow him, Christa,” she said. Then I woke up.

 

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