A bridge of angels

On New Year’s morning the Rose Parade in Pasadena, California, is always well attended. When we go, we usually park our car a mile away and walk over a long bridge to the parade. One year, as we followed the crowd, walking at a good pace over the bridge, my 11-year-old grandson called us back. “Look,” he said to his dad, pointing to the ground. “Tickets!” And they were: very good grandstand tickets to watch the parade.

My son was on his way to turn in the tickets at the gate when I noticed a woman searching her pockets and looking around. I asked if she had lost her tickets, and she said she had. I questioned what the aisle and seat number was, and then told her we had her tickets. She was overjoyed, and when I told her that my grandson had found them, she thought he was an angel.

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